UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


tions  from 

Crintfg 


"(Jte  forfe  creM0  tnfertfuta' 


(Beorge  TOiffiam  6^x0  '94 
(KoBerf  feouis  $crt>fcocft  '94 
®e  Soreef  gtcfte  '96 


t>artfort  Conn. 

press  of  Ube  Case  Xocftwoo&  &  3Brainart>  Compan? 
1804 


U- 


PS 
SOS 


stoop  fo  Bfame 
B  aorf  of  friffing" 

— JScownlng 


(3) 


founbere  of  " 

f0is  coffecfion  of 

is  tnscrtBeb 
6g  f^etr  succeBBore  of  1894 


tonfcnfe. 


Swiss  IDYLS.     IV.  D.  McCrackan,  '<?5 9 

THE  STORY  OF  AN  ARTIST'S  MODEL.    R.  C.  Tuttle,  '£g,      .  21 

WITH  POET'S  EYES.    D.  Willard,  '95, 34 

OVER  THE  COFFEE  CUPS.    L.  W.  Rogers,  "97,       ...  39 

AMIEE.    G.  W.  Ellis,  '94, 44 

"  PITY  THE  BLIND."    A.  L.  Green,  '97, 55 

A  MARSH  FLOWER.    C.  A.  Home,  '93, 59 

THE  SEA  SPIDERS.    A.  L.  Green,  '97, 66 

PIERRE'S  RETURN.    A.  L.  Green,  '97, 67 

A  DECEPTIVE  DINNER.    R.  C.  Tongue,  '95,  ....  69 

THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  AN  OLD  PIPE.     /.  B,  Birckhead,  '94,  73 

AN  APOLOGUE  OF  PESSIMISM 77 

AT  A  BUD  GERMAN.    G.  W.  Ellis,  '94 82 

THROUGH  THE  DROP  CURTAIN.    H.  S.  Candee,  '93,    .       .  90 

AN  AFTERNOON  TEA.    R.  C.  Tuttle,  }$g,        ....  99 

THE  MAN  WHO  GOT  CONVERTED.    L.  W.  Rogers,  '97,         .  108 

FOOTBALL  AS  IT  is  PLAYED.    L.  W.  Rogers,  '97,  .       .        .  113 

THE  FORE-WHEEL  OF  TIME.    C.F.Johnson,        ...  115 

THIS  THANKLESS  WORLD.    L.  W.  Rogers,  '97,      .        .        .  122 

A  STROLL  ABOUT  THE  COLLEGE.    R.  P.  Bates,  '93,     .       .  126 


(5) 


SING,  sing,  loud  let  us  sing. 
Our  cares  away  we  fling. 
For  friends  are  dear  and  hearts  are  free. 
Come,  share  our  joy  with  song  and  glee. 
Oh !  let  the  echoes  ring 
At  Trinity ! 

Sing,  sing,  sadly  sing. 

Some  songs  regret  will  bring. 
Our  hearts  it  rends  to  part  from  friends, 
And  time  will  never  make  amends. 

Some  songs  regret  will  bring 
At  Trinity ! 

Sing,  sing,  gladly  sing. 
Still  let  the  echoes  ring. 
Well  fear  no  storm  while  hearts  are  warm, 
No  shock  can  love  or  friendship  harm. 
Still  let  the  echoes  ring 
At  Trinity ! 

Melville  Knox  Bailey 


(6) 


HOEING    POTATOES. 

ALL  the  valleys  hushed.  The  lakes  black. 
A  mist  in  the  hollows,  smelling  moist  and 
tasting  smoky. 

Then,  on  the  top  of  the  Jungfrau,  a  sudden 
gleam  alighted.  The  sun  crept  down  the  great 
aretes,  —  those  arms  of  the  goddess  draped  in  mus 
lin.  It  burnished  the  rounded  snow  slopes  into 
rich  saffron,  and  cast  mauve  shadows  into  the  ser- 
acs  and  crevasses.  The  light  chased  the  gloom 
from  the  abyss  where  the  avalanches  fall,  —  that 
lap  of  the  goddess.  It  stripped  the  darkness  from 
her  sheer  sides. 

With  this,  the  virgin  seemed  to  wake  and 
stretch  and  smile. 

She  saw  two  women  and  a  child  hoeing  pota 
toes  on  the  Almend  of  Unterseen.  They  were 
dressed  partly  in  brown  homespun,  partly  in  non 
descript  calicoes.  Their  feet  stood  in  great  un 
gainly  shoes  with  wooden  soles.  The  grandmother 
still  wore  her  hair  twined  with  white  braid,  Ober- 
land-fashion,  but  the  young  woman  tried  to  be 
modern.  As  for  the  child,  it  played  in  the  dirt. 

And  so  the  women  toiled  unmindful  of  the  sur 
passing  magnificence  of  their  surroundings. 


I0  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

The  Jungfrau  saw  the  turquoise  of  the  lake  of 
Thun,  the  glowing  slopes  of  St.  Beatenberg,  the 
green-black  firs  on  the  Harder.  She  heard  a  man 
sharpening  his  scythe  among  the  field  flowers,  a 
boy  yodeling  to  his  goats  in  the  shrubs,  a  herd  of 
cows  jingling  their  bells  on  the  summer  pasture. 
She  smelt  the  mown  grass,  the  briar  hedges  nipped 
by  the  goats,  the  flowers  trodden  by  the  cattle. 

But  the  women  neither  saw,  nor  heard,  nor 
smelt. 

At  noon  the  Jungfrau  looked  again.  The 
grandmother  was  leaning  for  a  moment  on  her 
hoe,  the  young  woman  worked  in  a  crude  red  pet 
ticoat  blown  by  the  wind,  the  child  still  played  in 
the  dirt.  They  all  looked  sordid,  sullen,  stupid. 

Then  the  pitying  Virgin  turned  to  Mont  Blanc, 
full  eighty  miles  away.  How  long  must  these 
wrongs  be  ?  But,  before  the  answer  came,  the  day 
was  over,  and  the  women  shuffled  sadly  homeward, 
drawing  their  cart  after  them,  wherein  the  little 
girl  sat  holding  tight  to  the  sides. 

And  for  the  millionth  time  the  Jungfrau 
blushed,  and  then  turned  gray  and  slept. 


DRESS   REFORM    IN    THE    ALPS. 

The  usual  way  to  Champe'ry  leads  from  the 
Rhone  valley  through  vineyards,  chestnut  and  wal 
nut  groves,  into  the  region  of  cherry  trees  and 
grazing  lands.  But  my  first  visit  to  this  Val  d'll- 
liez  was  made  from  across  the  mountains  in  Savoy. 

I  had  started  early  in  the  morning  at  Samoens, 
with  a  knapsack  on  my  back.  The  day  was  hot, 


SWISS  IDYLS.  U 

even  on  the  top  of  the  Col  de  la  Golhe  and  the  Col 
de  Coux.  As  the  afternoon  waned,  and  the  Cham 
pe'ry  was  not  yet  in  sight,  I  began  asking  my  way 
of  the  peasants.  A  young  man  stood  by  the  road 
side  with  his  back  towards  me,  and  so  I  called : 
"  Monsieur,  will  you  please  tell  me  how  much  fur 
ther  it  is  to  Champe'ry?"  At  that  the  young  man 
turned  with  a  charming  smile  on  his  face,  for  he 
was  a  young  woman. 

The  trouble  is,  you  cannot  always  tell  the  sexes 
apart  in  the  Val  d'llliez,  since  the  women  have  the 
common  sense  and  courage  to  wear  men's  clothes, 
while  at  work  tending  cows.  It  is  perhaps  this 
which  preserves  their  figures  and  keeps  their 
cheeks  rosy,  long  after  the  women  in  neighboring 
valleys  are  bent  and  faded.  The  trousers  and 
jackets  of  black  homespun  are  like  those  of  the 
men  ;  so  are  the  big  hob-nailed  shoes.  In  fact,  the 
only  concession  to  femininity  is  a  brilliant  scarlet 
handkerchief,  wound  round  the  head  in  an  alto 
gether  bewitching  manner.  There  is  nothing  so 
convenient  as  this  costume,  when  the  women  ride 
up  to  the  Alps  on  their  ponies,  to  milk  the  cows  at 
nightfall. 

Unfortunately,  Champe'ry  is  becoming  such  a 
fashionable  tourist  resort  that  the  women  are  get 
ting  a  little  shy,  and  no  longer  go  about  as  freely 
as  they  used  to  do,  during  the  season. 

THEIR   GOLDEN    WEDDING. 

Old  Reiser  had  been  a  fisherman  all  his  life  on 
the  lake  of  Thun,  and  he  was  now  over  seventy. 


I2  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

Just  because  to-day  happened  to  be  the  fiftieth  anni 
versary  of  his  wedding  was  no  reason  for  stopping 
work.  Besides,  lake  trout  were  scarce  and  in  de 
mand,  and  his  fishing  permit  came  high.  So  he 
had  spent  the  day  as  usual  with  his  nets,  off  the 
reeds,  where  the  Aar  rushes  into  the  lake. 

In  the  late  afternoon  Reiser  rowed  home,  ob 
liquely  across,  to  the  hamlet  of  Sundlauenen.  It 
was  only  a  handful  of  dingy  chalets,  built  on  the 
rubble  which  the  Suldbach  had  brought  down 
through  the  ages,  and  inhabited  by  a  wretched, 
primitive  population.  As  he  neared,  he  turned  his 
boat,  —  they  always  do  in  the  Oberland, —  and  rode 
stern  foremost  under  the  rustic  roof  of  his  boat- 
house.  His  wife,  who  was  watching,  came  to  meet 
him  from  their  cottage. 

She  wore  the  old-fashioned  bodice  of  the  Ber 
nese  costume  and  the  wide  sleeves.  Her  face  was 
puckered  into  weather-beaten  wrinkles,  her  hands 
hard  and  callous,  her  gait  stooping  and  slouchy, 
peasant-like.  As  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  and 
pushed  him  affectionately,  her  little  old  eyes  were 
moist  with  happiness.  She  had  said  all  along  she 
knew  they  would  never  live  to  celebrate  their 
golden  wedding.  It  was  an  intuition,  she  insisted, 
but  now,  after  all,  it  was  such  a  relief  to  know  that 
she  was  wrong. 

Some  young  ladies  from  the  Pension  at  the  end 
of  the  lake,  who  were  fond  of  picnicking  here,  on 
the  grass  by  the  water,  nicknamed  the  old  couple 
the  Duke  and  Duchess,  —  probably  because  their 
manners  were  so  much  finer  than  those  of  real 


SWISS  IDYLS.  j.j 

Dukes  and  Duchesses.  That  morning  those  dear 
young  ladies  had  brought  their  wedding  gift,  she 
told  him.  Four  pounds  of  sugar,  two  of  coffee  (for 
them  both,  you  see),  some  cotton  thread  and  a  pa 
per  of  pins  for  her.  They  had  asked  about  tobacco 
for  old  Reiser,  but  she  told  them  proudly  that  he 
never  smoked. 

Reiser's  wife  had  never  been  farther  from  home 
than  Berne,  some  twenty- five  miles  away,  and  that 
was  in  her  youth.  They  had  never  had  any  chil 
dren.  He  had  fished  ;  she  had  worked  in  their 
vegetable  patch,  and  woven  the  hemp  for  his  nets, 
or  helped  him  mend  them.  It  was  always  a  strug 
gle  to  make  both  ends  meet,  but  they  had  been 
really  happy  through  it  all.  "And  to  think,"  she 
repeated,  as  they  came  out  after  supper,  "that  I 
felt  so  sure  we  would  never  live  to  see  this  day." 

They  sat  on  the  bench  at  the  side  of  the  cottage, 
where  the  nets  hang  to  dry.  There  was  such  a 
calm  on  the  lake,  they  could  hear  people  talking 
on  the  other  shore.  From  the  fringe  of  the  woods 
came  the  smell  of  cyclamen.  A  quiet  light  glowed 
behind  the  Stockhorn,  but  the  Niesen  had  already 
become  a  purple  pyramid  turning  black.  An  elec 
tric  light  was  turned  on  at  the  Darlingen  steam 
boat  landing,  and,  soon  after,  a  star  appeared  over 
the  shoulder  of  the  range  opposite. 

Old  Rieser  and  his  wife  sat  hand  in  hand,  like 
lovers.  She  had  brought  out  the  Bible,  as  though 
it  were  Sunday.  At  intervals,  she  still  persisted 
that  she  had  always  felt  they  would  never  live  to 
see  this  day. 
2 


I4  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

Just  then  a  fish  rose.  The  ripples  parted  slowly 
in  a  circle  across  the  calm, — line  after  line,  with 
out  pause,  infinite,  —  a  symbol  of  immortality. 

"But  now  I  don't  care  what  happens,"  said  the 
old  woman.  And  they  went  in. 

THE    LANDSGEMEINDE. 

It  is  the  6th  of  May,  and  Sunday.  The  whole 
Canton  of  Uri  is  astir.  From  Goeschenen  to 
Fluelen  the  people  are  moving  upon  Altdorf, 
walking,  driving,  or  by  train.  The  torrent  of  the 
Reuss  rumbles  through  the  ravines,  across  the 
fodder  plains,  between  shelving  stone  banks, 
straight  into  the  lake  of  Luzern.  There  is  a 
sprinkling  of  snow  on  the  summit  of  the  Bristen- 
stock ;  the  Gitschen  wears  a  cap  of  clouds  in  sign 
of  fine  weather.  The  grass  in  the  orchards  is 
strewn  with  fragrant  shadows. 

Midday  at  Altdorf.  In  the  market  place  a 
procession  is  forming:  first  militiamen,  then 
magistrates,  beadles  in  long  cloaks,  and  voters  of 
all  types.  A  tall  man  in  black  steps  into  his  car 
riage,  the  soldiers  salute,  the  drums  roll.  With 
that  the  march  begins,  out  to  the  meadow  of 
Botzlingen  and  der  Gand,  by  the  dusty  highway. 

One  o'clock.  Two  thousand  voters  are  stand 
ing  in  a  circle  on  a  wooden  platform,  with  the 
tall  magistrate  and  a  clerk  in  the  center.  There 
are  farmers  in  the  ring,  and  monks  from  the 
Capuchin  monastery,  herders  and  hotel  proprie 
tors.  Almost  everybody  smokes.  On  the  out 
skirts  the  women  and  children  watch  and  wait. 


SWISS  IDYLS.  15 

Indeed,  there  are  even  some  baby  carriages  in  the 
shade,  for  the  Landsgemeinde  is  the  most  patri 
archal  and  immemorial  assembly  to  be  found  the 
world  over. 

But  look,  the  voters  bare  their  heads,  and  a 
mighty  hush  follows,  while  they  repeat  their  Ave 
Marias,  each  to  himself.  A  cuckoo  calls  from  the 
woods  of  Attinghausen,  somebody  at  the  drinking 
booth  laughs  coarsely,  the  St.  Gothard  train 
whistles  as  it  passes.  Then  the  business  of  the 
meeting  begins. 

Two  o'clock.  At  present  the  discussion  is 
about  the  new  constitution.  Tobacco  smoke  rises 
in  puffs  from  the  assembly,  to  disappear  in  the 
sunlight.  The  people  on  the  hill  are  eating  from 
lunch  baskets,  mostly  filled  with  hunks  of  bread 
and  cheese,  or,  for  a  treat,  drinking  from  bottles 
of  sour  wine.  Others  are  crowding  around  the 
refreshment  booths,  that  are  ranged  along  the 
approach  to  the  meadow,  and  there  they  jostle 
one  another  awkwardly,  trampling  the  grass  in 
heavy  shoes,  speaking  a  guttural  dialect.  After  a 
while,  a  vote  is  taken  on  the  adoption  of  the  con 
stitution.  It  is  done  by  a  show  of  hands,  but  the 
assembly  murmurs  and  bellows  like  a  bull,  while 
the  clerk  counts  the  ayes  and  nays. 

Three  o'clock.  And  now,  the  next  order  of 
business  is  the  election  of  officers.  A  beadle  in 
costume  of  orange  and  black  rises  after  each 
result,  lifts  his  cocked  hat,  and  wishes  the  new 
magistrate  "health  and  wealth."  But  the  noise 
from  the  outskirts  at  times  interferes  with  the 


jg  TRINITY   SKETCHES. 

speakers,  so  that  a  policemen  is  sent  to  protest, 
and  a  man  in  his  cups  is  marched  off  for  resisting. 

Along  the  further  skyline  the  twin  mountains 
of  Bauen  grow  dim  with  the  increasing  warmth. 
It  seems  as  though  the  sun  were  drawing  the 
scent  from  spring  flowers  and  fruit  blossoms  for 
no  purpose,  and  the  breeze  scattering  it  in  vain, 
since  the  crowd  talk,  and  eat,  and  drink  all  un 
mindful.  Perhaps  these  two  young  people  stand 
ing  by  the  wall,  looking  sheepish  and  saying 
nothing,  feel  this  beauty,  without  knowing. 

Four  o'clock.  The  assembly  adjourns.  Every 
body  presses  blindly  on  to  the  highway,  where  the 
procession  reforms  and  marches  back  to  Altdorf, 
while  many  people  scatter  in  groups  to  every 
country-side  and  valley  of  Canton  Uri.  After  all, 
it  is  a  noble  thing  to  make  your  own  laws,  under 
God's  sky,  in  sight  of  His  mountains,  as  your 
fathers  did  before  you. 

Yes,  this  Landsgemeinde  is  crude, — with  a 
certain  primeval,  Germanic  uncouthness.  But  it 
does  its  work  simply  and  openly ;  in  the  sunlight. 
It  is  democratic,  it  is  the  government  of  all  men. 
Its  germ  can  never  die. 

SUMMER   PASTURES. 

That  morning  the  cattle  of  Meiringen  sniffed 
for  the  free  air  of  the  mountains.  After  their 
winter  in  warm  pens,  they  pushed  forward  on  the 
road,  bellowing  and  stamping  the  ground.  Above 
the  din  of  their  bells  rose  the  cries  of  the  herders, 
running  before  and  behind.  A  few  horses  went 


SWISS  IDYLS.  I7 

along  to  carry  kettles  for  making  cheese,  and 
quite  a  company  of  frightened  sheep  and  goats 
scuttled  after,  driven  by  little  boys  who  kept 
up  an  altogether  senseless  cracking  of  whips.  It 
was  the  yearly  migration  of  the  cattle  to  the  sum 
mer  pastures  of  the  Gschwandenmad  Alp. 

The  train  turned  a  corner  above  the  Reichen- 
bach  Falls.  A  trailing  diminuendo  vibrated  in  the 
crystal  air.  At  times  a  puff  of  wind  would  renew 
the  clamor  for  an  instant,  but  slowly  the  tones  of 
the  bells  sank  into  faint  tinklings,  the  herders' 
calls  sounded  muffled,  and  the  little  boys  grew  too 
tired  to  crack  their  whips. 

As  they  climbed  through  the  woods,  the  men 
caught  some  last  glimpses  of  the  valley  of  Hasli, 
where,  in  the  patchwork  of  the  plains,  young  oats 
and  clover  stretched  side  by  side  in  narrow  strips. 
Whenever  they  passed  a  chalet,  children  would 
be  there  watching  shyly  on  the  steps, —  tow- 
headed  little  things  in  patched  clothes  and  might 
shoes. 

At  last  the  beeches  and  brambles  of  the  lower 
woods  gave  way  to  firs.  There  was  already  the 
keen  tonic  of  the  snow  in  the  air,  when  lo  !  at  the 
head  of  the  narrowing  valley,  the  Alp  of  Gsch 
wandenmad  lay  smiling  with  many  thousand 
flowers.  The  white  Wetterhorn  rose  on  the  right, 
the  black  Wellhorn  in  the  middle,  the  glacier  of 
Rosenlaui  curled  down  to  the  left,  and  round 
about  the  circling  forests  stood  sentinel.  It  was 
not  long  before  the  huts,  deserted  all  winter,  rang 
from  within,  and  the  cattle  trampled  the  soft 
ground  outside  into  mire  and  manure. 
3* 


jg  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

At  dawn  next  day  a  herder  carried  milk  down 
to  Meiringin  in  a  wooden  hod  fitted  to  his  back. 
He  wore  a  tight  canvas  jacket  with  short  sleeves, 
leaving  the  arms  to  bronze  in  the  sun.  Where 
the  path  was  steep,  he  steadied  himself  with  an 
alpenstock.  His  shoes  were  soiled  and  iron  shod, 
his  head  covered  with  a  leather  skull  cap,  and  a 
curved  pipe  hung  persistently  from  his  lips.  As 
he  slipped,  he  swore. 

But  in  the  afternoon  his  pack  was  empty,  for 
everything  had  gone  well  with  him ;  and  so,  when 
he  passed  the  chalet  where  Gretli  lived,  he  could 
not  help  jodling  from  a  full  heart.  It  was  a  rough, 
manly  outburst,  re-echoing  back  and  forth  from 
the  cliffs  of  the  Engelhorner ;  in  fact,  it  must  have 
carried  Gretli's  heart  by  storm,  for  later  on  when 
the  girls  came  to  the  Alp  for  the  summer  festival 
of  dancing  and  wrestling,  he  kept  her  to  himself 
all  day  and  threw  his  rival  in  the  ring. 

At  noon  the  herders  used  to  sit  down  before  a 
bucket-full  of  boiled  milk.  Each  had  a  wooden 
spoon  with  which  to  dip  in,  the  handle  being 
curved  into  a  hook,  so  as  to  hang  on  the  edge 
of  the  bucket.  All  there  was  to  eat  was  a  piece  of 
bread  and  a  slice  of  poor  cheese.  They  talked 
very  little,  and  that  in  a  surly,  sing-song  way,  with 
the  stupid  stare  of  their  cattle  in  their  eyes  ;  some 
times  complaining  of  their  work,  for  the  most  part 
of  their  poor  pay ;  cursing  alternately  the  tourists, 
the  heavy  air  of  the  plains,  or  the  cold  of  the 
mountain  nights.  There  was  no  sentimental 
mountaineering  cult  about  them. 


SWISS  IDYLS.  ,9 

Making  cheese  was  a  daily  task.  First,  they 
poured  milk  into  a  vast  kettle.  A  little  rennet 
was  added  to  curdle  the  milk,  and  the  mixture 
allowed  to  stand  some  twenty  minutes.  Someone 
then  skimmed  off  the  waste  with  a  thin  wooden 
shovel,  and  stirred  the  whole  with  a  pine  stick, 
bristling  with  the  buts  of  the  branches  left  on. 
This  preparation  was  boiled,  poured  into  a  form, 
allowed  to  cool,  and  finally  pressed  until  hard. 

At  the  end  of  the  summer,  when  all  the  hay  on 
the  lower  pastures  was  housed,  three  men  climbed 
beyond  the  utmost  limits  of  the  timber  line  to  the 
islets  of  green  among  the  barren  crags,  where  the 
cows  cannot  go.  They  carried  their  scythes  upon 
the  left  shoulder,  the  little  cup  with  the  whetstone 
fastened  to  the  waist,  and  their  broad  felt  hats 
were  exactly  alike.  As  they  climbed  in  single  file, 
they  made  their  zigzags  the  same  length,  swung 
their  bodies  to  the  same  time,  mounting  sure 
footed  with  a  beautiful  precision  to  the  heights. 
For  days  they  mowed  in  upper  solitudes  above  the 
alpine  roses,  but  among  the  gentians,  and  the  soft 
gray  felt  of  the  edelweiss.  They  mowed  on  the 
brinks  of  precipices,  unconcernedly.  It  was  their 
only  grace,  this  art  of  unconscious  equilibrium. 

From  shelving  rocks  fringes  of  silver  showers 
dripped  and  drifted  dust-like  in  mid  air.  It  was 
the  trickle  of  the  melting  snow.  The  cold  wind 
sang  in  their  ears,  coming  from  a  white  winter  up 
there,  that  never  turns  to  spring.  Clouds,  in  torn 
shreds  floated  ill-at-ease  along  the  crags  in  tragic 
discontent. 


20 


TRINITY  SKETCHES. 


A  few  days  later  the  three  men  carried  bales  of 
hay  wrapped  in  canvas  down  paths  hardly  fit  for 
goats.  With  that  their  summer's  work  was  over. 

As  the  last  afternoon  waned,  the  flowers 
quaked  before  the  growing  keenness  of  the  wind. 
A  mountain  bir,d  uttered  sudden,  startled  notes. 
From  all  the  pasture  came  the  haphazard  jingling 
of  cow-bells,  as  the  descending  cattle  advanced 
towards  the  hut.  They  stood  about  for  awhile, 
switching  their  tails,  while  the  head  herder  passed 
from  one  to  the  other  with  a  bag  of  salt  to  give 
each  one  a  handful.  When  one  by  one  the  cows 
had  entered  the  stables  with  a  last  jerk  of  their 
bells,  a  thin  blue  line  rose  from  the  hut  where  the 
men  were  cooking  their  supper.  Their  violet  veil 
of  twilight  hung  upon  the  further  mountains,  and 
all  was  still,  save  that  the  torrent  rumbled  to 
the  night. 

Next  day  the  weather  broke. 

W.  D.  MCCRACKAN. 


of  an  @Uft0f  0  (JJtobef. 


i. 

IT  was  late  when  I  arrived  at  the  Ecole  des 
Beaux-Arts  that  morning.  Usually,  I  am 
there  early,  for  I  like  to  have  my  easel  ar 
ranged  before  the  model  begins  to  pose.  You  see 
artists  are  so  greedy.  Those  first  in  the  studio 
select  the  best  points  of  view,  and  as  for  the  poor 
fools  who  come  afterwards  —  ma  foi  !  they  have  to 
put  up  with  what  they  can  find.  Yes,  I  was  very 
late  ;  indeed  it  was  after  eleven  when  I  rushed  up 
the  great  staircase  and  entered  the  long,  brilliantly 
lighted  room. 

The  confusion  which  at  once  met  my  eyes  was 
bewildering.  Instead  of  being  quietly  at  work,  I 
found  every  man  in  the  studio  had  left  his  easel 
and  was  talking  in  the  greatest  excitement  to  him 
self  or  to  his  neighbor.  On  all  sides,  disorder  pre 
vailed.  Palettes,  paints,  brushes,  were  scattered 
about  on  the  floor  in  a  confusion  which  made  me 
shudder.  Jean  Janois  was  even  knocking  over  an 
easel  as  he  ran  across  the  floor  with  a  glass  of 
water  in  his  hand. 

"  Has  a  whirlwind  struck  these  mad  artists  or 
what  is  the  matter  ?  "  I  asked  myself,  not  under- 


22  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

standing  at  all.  Suddenly,  however,  I  happened 
to  glance  at  the  model's  platform  and  everything 
was  explained.  The  model  had  fainted  away. 

"It  is  terrible  —  exasperating,"  Sebastien  cried 
with  a  shrug  as  he  saw  me.  "She  is  the  most 
wonderful  model  we  have  ever  had  and  now  she 
faints  !  Bah  !  women  should  never  pose  !  " 

"  She  may  not  be  used  to  it,"  I  answered  care 
lessly.  I  could  not  withdraw  my  eyes  from  the 
beautiful,  deathlike  face. 

"Very  evidently  she  is  not,"  sneered  Sebastien. 

"  Will  some  of  you  men  cease  to  jabber  and 
come  and  help  me  ?  "  exclaimed  Jean  Janois  as  he 
bent  down  and  pressed  the  water  to  the  model's 
lips,  while  the  woman  attendant  rubbed  her  life 
less  hands. 

I  seized  a  large  fan  and  went  with  it  to  the 
platform,  but  Jean  Janois  took  it  from  me.  He 
insisted  on  fanning  her  himself,  and  he  arranged 
the  thick  drapery  which  had  been  thrown  over  her 
prostrate  form,  for  it  was  chilly. 

"  She  is  my  model,"  continued  Sebastien,  when 
I  came  back.  "  You  can  thank  me  for  discover 
ing  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world  !  Yes, 
I  found  her  and  I  was  determined  to  paint  her. 
She  is  very  poor  and  wanted  the  money. 

"  Did  you  say  that  she  is  married  ?  "  asked  a 
little  man  who  stood  near  us. 

"  Yes.  The  husband  is  dying.  Starvation,  I 
imagine.  She  was  glad  enough  to  sign  my  papers, 
for  it  meant  bread,  perhaps  life,  to  the  man  she 
loved.  You  see  she  didn't  know  she  must  pose 
nude." 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  ARTIST'S  MODEL.  33 

"  Didn't  know  ?  "  asked  the  little  man,  amazed. 

"  And  I  did  not  tell  her.  I  had  the  papers,  and 
people  are  so  foolish  !  When  will  they  get  over 
their  absurd  prejudices  and  learn  to  sacrifice 
notions  for  art  ?  " 

Sebastien  left  us  and  strode  over  to  Jean  Janois. 
He  was  impatient  for  the  model  to  revive,  in  order 
that  he  might  go  on  with  his  work. 

"  You  should  have  been  here  before  !  "  declared 
Ivan  Isilei,  a  young  Russian  painter,  coming  up 
to  me.  "  Ah,  but  she  was  superb  !  magnificent ! 
I  never  saw  such  a  form  !  such  features  !  But  she 
seemed  most  unhappy,  and  I  could  not  understand 
why.  That  expression  —  a  look  of  agony  —  see, 
Sebastien  has  caught  it.  Sebastien  is  doing  fine 
work  to-day." 

The  Russian's  chatter  might  have  continued 
much  longer,  but  at  that  moment  the  model,  mov 
ing  slightly,  opened  her  eyes  and  a  hum  of  delight 
went  through  the  studio.  As  for  me,  I  stood  like 
one  transfixed,  rooted  to  the  spot.  In  all  my  life  I 
never  had  beheld  such  beauty.  In  all  my  life  I 
never  had  seen  such  hopeless  despair.  She  seemed 
like  some  pure  spirit  who  was  vainly  seeking  to 
escape  from  torture.  The  warm  blood  rushed  to 
my  face  as  I  thought  indignantly  of  Sebastien's 
contemptible  conduct  in  deceiving  this  delicate, 
sensitive  creature.  In  her  frightened  look  and 
helpless  attitude,  1  read  the  anguish  and  suffering 
she  must  have  endured  before  her  strength  had 
finally  failed  her  ;  the  effort  which  such  a  sacrifice 
must  have  cost  one  who  was  so  manifestly  proud 
and  womanly. 


24  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

"  What  ?  "  cried  Sebastien  fiercely,  interrupting 
my  reflections.  "  Does  she  refuse  to  pose  longer  ? 
Does  she  dare  to  refuse  ? " 

"  She's  not  the  ordinary  kind,"  explained  the 
attendant,  who  was  a  rough,  uncouth  woman, 
"and  you  know,  monsieur,  that  she  had  a  bad 
turn  —  a  very  bad  turn." 

Jean  Janois  was  helping  the  model  to  rise,  and 
Sebastien  stood  before  him  like  a  lion,  his  power 
ful  frame  trembling  with  anger.  Sebastien  is  a 
large  man. 

"  You  are  breaking  your  promise  —  the  agree 
ment  which  you  signed  yourself,  woman  ! "  he 
said,  not  heeding  the  attendant  —  "  and  I  tell  you, 
if  you  dare  to  do  such  a  thing,  not  one  sou  shall 
you  receive  for  your  pains.  You  can  go  back  to 
your  dying  husband  and  tell  him  where  you  have 
been,  but " 

"  Oh,  heaven  help  me  !  "  the  woman  whispered 
in  despair,  standing  erect,  as  she  pulled  the  soft 
white  drapery  tightly  about  her,  and  looked  in 
every  direction  for  some  escape. 

I  started  forward  without  waiting  another  in 
stant.  Directly  behind  the  platform  was  a  door 
which  led  to  the  dressing  room.  Quickly  opening 
this,  I  made  signs  to  the  attendant,  who  at  once 
understanding  my  purpose,  led  her  out  without  a 
word. 

When  I  came  back  to  the  studio,  Sebastien  was 
walking  up  and  down  like  a  lunatic.  Ma  foi,  how 
his  eyes  blazed  !  I  joined  a  group  of  men  who 
stood  admiring  the  full-length,  life-size  sketch  on 
his  easel. 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  ARTIST'S  MODEL.  25 

"  A  marvelous  beginning  !  "  said  one.  "  He 
has  worked  this  morning  as  though  inspired. 
What  a  pity  he  could  not  have  finished !  " 

"  It  would  have  been  cruelty.  She  was  almost 
killed  as  it  was.  But  what  a  magnificent  head  ! " 

"  She  might  pose  for  Venus,"  the  little  man 
declared  enthusiastically,  as  he  gazed  at  the  half- 
finished  canvas. 

Sebastien  joined  us. 

"  By  heavens,  she  shall  not  get  off  so  easily  !  " 
he  declared,  "  I  will  paint  that  woman  if  I  have  to 
drag  her  here  again.  I  will  tell  her  that  her 
effeminate  husband  shall  learn  of  her  little  esca 
pade,  and  that  will  probably  bring  her." 

"  But  —  did  not  the  husband  know  ?  " 

"I  should  rather  think  not.  There  was  some 
sentimental  nonsense,  and  she  made  me  promise 
he  should  be  kept  in  ignorance.  But  if  worse 
comes  to  worse,"  continued  the  man,  "  perhaps 
each  of  you  will  let  me  have  his  sketch.  I  could 
do  something  in  that  way,  for  I'm  bound  to  paint 
her  !  —  and  now  I  suppose  we  must  hunt  for 
another  model." 

"  Find  one  who  does  not  faint,  this  time," 
laughed  Ivan  Isilei.  I  was  disgusted  at  Sebastien, 
and  so  was  Jean  Janois.  He  put  his  arm  through 
mine  and  we  left  the  studio. 

Two  days  afterward  I  found  out  where  she 
lived.  Sebastien  had  told  Jean  Janois,  and  the 
latter  came  and  took  me  off  to  an  out-of-the-way 
corner  of  Paris,  to  investigate  the  case,  for  we 
were  both  interested. 
3 


2g  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

"  If  she  is  really  in  want,  it  should  be  seen  to," 
he  had  said,  and  I  agreed  with  him. 

The  house  was  in  a  dark,  narrow  street,  and  it, 
too,  looked  very  dark  and  narrow  as  we  entered. 
One  thing  about  it  was  bright,  however,  and  that 
was  the  hostess.  She  was  a  short,  stout  woman, 
with  a  red,  shining  face,  and  much  false  hair.  We 
found  her  washing  windows,  and  she  dropped  her 
towel  quickly  as  she  turned  and  saw  we  had  been 
admitted. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Jean  Janois  with  a 
slight  cough. 

"  Pray,  what  may  I  do  for  you,  messieurs  ? "  she 
asked,  as  Jean  hesitated. 

"  We  wish  to  render  some  assistance  to  a  poor 
lady,  who,  we  are  told,  lives  here  and  whose  hus 
band  is  ill." 

"  Ah,  del,  but  you  do  come  too  late  !  "  she  cried 
with  an  engaging  smile.  "  Madame  and  her  hus 
band  are  gone.  They  left  yesterday,  and  I  hope 
by  this  time  they  are  both  feeling  better,  poor 
things." 

"  What !  Gone  ?  Left  Paris  ?  "  I  asked,  stupe 
fied. 

"  Yes,  left  Paris  !  You  see  monsieur  had  a  let 
ter  which  brought  good  fortune  —  and  by  this  time 
I  dare  say  they  are  far  away,  under  the  skies  of 
Italy.  Ah  me  !  I  was  in  Italy  once  —  when  I  was 
young." 

"  But  we  heard  that  he  was  dying  ? "  declared 
Jean  Janois. 

"  And  he  will  die  sometime,  poor  monsieur  !  " 
she  answered  softly,  wiping  her  eyes. 


THE  STORY   OF   AN   ARTIST'S  MODEL. 


27 


"  Madame  and  her  husband  were  very  poor  ? " 

"  Ah,  yes  ! "  she  said,  while  she  settled  her 
self  as  a  woman  does  who  enjoys  the  prospect  of 
telling  a  sad  story. 

"  You  see,"  she  continued,  "  monsieur  was  Eng 
lish,  and  madame  —  was  an  angel !  monsieur's 
family  objected  to  the  match.  You  see,  monsieur's 
family  in  England  are  very  fine,  and  madame, 
though  so  good,  is  poor.  They  have  been  here  six 
months  and  monsieur  has  grown  weaker  every 
day.  Consumption,  you  see.  I'm  sure,  if  care  and 
devotion  could  do  anything,  monsieur  should  get 
well,  for  in  all  that  time  madame  has  never  left 
him  once  — till  the  other  day." 

Here  the  hostess  paused  a  moment,  for  she  was 
scant  of  breath.  "  The  other  day,"  she  went  on, 
"  madame  came  to  me  early  in  the  morning  with  a 
happy  face.  '  I'm  going  to  win  us  good  fortune,' 
she  said,  and  then  she  told  me  how  the  doctor  had 
declared  that  the  only  way  to  save  monsieur's  life 
was  to  go  South.  How  she  had  been  in  despair 
when  she  had  heard  this  ;  how  happy  she  was  now 
since  she  had  found  a  way  to  bring  it  about. 
Would  I  stay  with  monsieur  ?  Of  course  I  would. 
'  It  is  so  hard  to  leave  Jack,'  she  said,  monsieur  is 
Jack,  you  see,  but  I  promised  to  take  good  care  of 
him  and  so  she  went.  While  she  was  gone  the 
letter  came.  It  brought  sunshine  back  to  mon 
sieur's  pale  face.  For  the  first  time  in  weeks  he 
was  getting  up  to  dress,  when  all  at  once  madame 
came  back.  Ah,  messieurs,  I  never  saw  such  a 
wretched  woman.  Changed  ?  She  was  twenty 


2g  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

years  older !  When  I  opened  the  door,  she  fell 
into  my  arms,  and  she  dared  not  go  to  monsieur 
for  some  time.  Neither  he  nor  I  ever  found  out 
what  the  trouble  was.  The  letter  put  all  other 
thoughts  out  of  his  mind,  you  see,  and  —  yes,  they 
went  yesterday.  They  have  promised  to  write  to 
me,"  — 

"  Then  we  can  do  nothing  to  help  them  ? " 
asked  Jean  Janois  regretfully. 

"  I  think  not.  Do  you  know  you  are  the  second 
here  to-day,  to  enquire  for  madame  ?  Another 
gentleman  came  this  morning.  He  was  really 
angry,  and  would  not  believe  me  at  first  when  I 
said  they  were  gone." 

"  Was  he  very  tall  —  very  large  ?  "  I  enquired. 

"Yes,  very.  He  quite  frightened  me,"  she 
declared  with  a  shrug. 

"  It  was  Sebastien,"  said  Jean  Janois. 

II. 

Springtime  in  Paris.  Where  is  the  spring 
more  gay  ?  The  brilliant  sky,  the  laughing 
crowds,  the  flowers,  and  best  of  all  —  best  for  me 
—  the  Salon. 

Jean  Janois  had  his  arm  in  mine  as  we  made 
our  way  through  the  throng  and  looked  at  the  long 
lines  of  pictures.  We  had  been  here  for  hours  and 
could  not  get  away.  There  is  a  fascination  about 
the  opening  day  which  I  never  can  outlive.  It  is 
the  great  holiday  for  artists,  and  certainly  all  Paris 
seems  to  enjoy  it  as  much  as  we  do.  First  one 


THE  STORY   OF  AN  ARTIST'S  MODEL.  2g 

man,  then  another,  had  begged  us  to  come  and  see 
where  his  picture  was  hung.  Of  course,  nobody 
was  satisfied  with  the  hanging  —  I  say  nobody, 
but  I  am  wrong.  Sebastien  was  thoroughly  satis 
fied.  He  had  obtained  the  Prix  de  Rome  and  his 
picture  was  in  the  place  of  honor. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ? "  I  asked  surprised,  when 
suddenly  Jean  Janois  gave  my  arm  a  terrible  pinch. 

"  See  !  see  !  he  whispered  excitedly,  pointing 
through  the  crowd,  "  It  is  —  oh,  it  is  !  " 

"  Are  you  insane  ?  "  I  inquired,  laughing,  but 
looking  in  the  direction  he  had  pointed,  I  instantly 
became  grave.  Not  six  feet  from  us,  a  lady  and 
gentleman  were  standing,  gazing  with  fixed  atten 
tion  at  an  Eastern  picture  by  Ge"rome.  The  pallid 
face  of  the  man  told  of  weariness  and  ill  health, 
but  he  stood  erect  and  smiled  in  light-hearted  en 
joyment  as  he  listened  to  his  wife's  quiet  words. 
And  the  wife  ?  Could  that  beautiful  woman,  so 
quietly  but  elegantly  dressed,  whose  every  move 
ment  breathed,  a  soft  refinement,  be  our  model  ? 
It  certainly  was,  and  both  Jean  Janois  and  I  shud 
dered  as  we  thought  of  the  terrible  meaning  of  her 
presence. 

"  How  can  we  get  them  away  ?  "  I  whispered, 
conscious  that  something  must  be  done. 

"  There  is  the  chance  that  they  may  not  see," 
said  Jean. 

"  But  they  will  see  if  they  stay." 

As  I  spoke,  the  fair-faced  Englishman  looked 
down  at  his  wife.     We  were  so  near  I  could  not 
help  listening  to  their  conversation. 
3* 


-0  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

"Why  is  it,  Marie,  that  you  do  not  care  to  look 
at  pictures  any  more  ? "  he  was  saying  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  And  why  is  it  that  you  think  I  do  not  ?  " 

"You  really  did  not  care  to  come  to-day  — 
confess. " 

"  I  shall  confess  nothing.  If  you  enjoy  it,  you 
know  I  do." 

"  Ah  !  Marie,  I  believe  you  would  do  anything 
for  me — you  never  think  of  yourself.  Do  you 
know,"  he  went  on,  smiling,  "  I  feel  better  already 
since  we  have  come  back  to  Paris.  I  am  a  differ 
ent  man  to-day.  I  shall  soon  be  well,  Marie,  don't 
you  think  I  shall,  dear  ?  " 

They  began  to  move  slowly  down  the  room. 
Jean  Janois  and  I  followed  them. 

"  See  !  "  said  the  Englishman,  suddenly  turn 
ing  "  what  is  all  that  crowd  doing  over  there  ?  By 
Jove,  Marie,  we  must  go  and  see.  It  is  probably 
the  gem  of  the  collection,  or  it  wouldn't  attract  so 
many  people.  And  we  had  almost  missed  it  — 
come." 

I  looked  at  Jean  Janois  in  terror.  He  actually 
turned  pale.  Before  we  had  time  to  think  further 
or  seek  some  means  of  stopping  them,  both  had 
been  lost  from  us  in  the  crowd. 

A  curious  murmur  seemed  to  rise  soon  after 
wards,  and  I  saw  the  tall  Englishman  and  his  wife 
slowly  making  their  way  through  the  surprised 
throng,  unobservant  of  the  strange  attention  they 
were  attracting. 

"What  are  they  doing?    Oh,  what  will  hap- 


THE   STORY  OF   AN  ARTIST'S   MODEL.  $l 

pen  ? "  I  cry  in  agony  to  Jean  Janois.  Then  I 
leap  through  the  crowd,  pushing  my  way  like  a 
madman,  not  heeding  how  I  go,  but  only  intent  on 
preventing,  if  possible,  the  calamity  which  seems 
so  near.  Men  stare,  women  remonstrate,  children 
cry,  but  I  care  not.  I  only  dash  on  with  the  wild, 
unreasoning  hope  of  snatching  the  pair  in  front  of 
me  from  a  terrible  revelation,  but  I  am  too  late. 
Even  as  I  stretch  out  my  hand  to  draw  him  back, 
the  man  raises  his  eyes  and  sees. 

A  vision,  so  fair,  so  beautiful  that  one  might 
truly  say,  it  is  a  spirit  too  pure  for  this  rough 
world,  is  on  the  wall  before  us.  The  portrait  of 
the  woman  who  stands,  perfectly  nude,  looking 
down  upon  the  throng,  is  a  wonderful  production 
of  art.  Its  beauty  is  enchanting,  dazzling.  The 
face  seems  to  breathe  forth  radiance,  and  yet,  in 
the  proud  turn  of  the  head,  the  piercing  eyes,  one 
can  almost  read  a  silent  appeal  for  pity.  Certainly 
Sebastien  has  done  his  work  well,  and  merits  the 
praise  he  is  receiving  on  all  sides.  His  picture  is 
true  to  the  life,  cruelly  true,  for  every  one  here 
can  see  its  counterpart. 

Shall  I  ever  forget  that  cry  ?  It  is  so  faint  that 
it  scarcely  reaches  my  ears,  yet  it  is  so  full  of 
meaning  it  thrills  every  fibre  of  my  body.  Anguish, 
reproach,  despair,  seem  rending  a  man's  heart  in 
shreds,  and  the  broken  words  which  come  with 
the  cry  do  not  speak  half  so  plainly. 

"  A  man  has  fallen  senseless  !  "  soon  I  hear  a 
woman  call  out,  but  I  am  almost  too  dazed  to  heed 
her. 


-2  TRINITY   SKETCHES. 

"  Water  !  air  !  Oh,  see  his  poor  wife  !  "  declares 
another. 

In  the  awe-stricken  silence,  I  look  down  at  the 
white  face  of  the  man  before  me.  His  eyes  are 
closed,  his  hands  relaxed,  and  with  horror  I  see  a 
bright  stream  issuing  from  his  mouth. 

"  Oh,  Jack  !  Jack  ! "  sobs  Marie,  kneeling  at 
his  side.  "  Only  hear  me,  Jack,  hear  me  !  It  was 
for  you,  Jack,  for  you  !  Oh,  darling,  darling,  say 
you  hear,  it  was  all  for  you  —  " 

The  eyes  open  for  a  moment,  and  seem  to 
smile.  Then  all  is  still  ;  and  the  desolate  woman 
who  waits  so  long  and  silently  for  an  answer,  can 
only  guess  that  he  has  heard. 

Sunshine  and  shadow,  shadow  and  sunshine, — 
continually  they  chase  each  other  across  our  lives, 
and  leave  them  never  wholly  colorless.  However 
sad  the  changing  drama  we  call  life  may  be,  how 
ever  vivid  the  memory  of  a  great  and  lasting  sor 
row,  there  still  is  here  and  there  a  gleam  of  cheer 
which  brings  a  short  forgetfulness. 

Jean  Janois  and  I  have  been  sketching  in 
Bretigny  this  summer.  To-day,  as  we  were  draw 
ing  the  moss-covered  towers  of  an  old  convent,  a 
crowd  of  little  charity  children  playing  in  the 
court  came  to  look  over  our  shoulders.  Suddenly, 
the  convent  door  opened,  and  the  figure  of  a  nun 
appeared  on  the  threshold.  As  I  looked,  the  chil 
dren  left  us,  and  ran  joyfully  towards  her. 

"  Come,  oh  come,  ma  soeur,  and  see  the  pic 
tures  ! "  they  cried,  laughing  as  they  nestled  in 
her  black  gown. 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  ARTIST'S  MODEL.  33 

The  grave,  sweet  face  looked  down  upon  the 
eager  little  ones  and  gave  them  a  sad,  lingering 
smile  ;  then  gently  but  quickly  drawing  them 
within,  she  disappeared  in  silence. 

Jean  Janois  and  I  looked  at  the  closed  door, 
Speechless  for  a  whole  minute. 

"  You  think  Sister  Maria  is  very  beautiful,  don't 
you  ?  "  asked  a  bright-eyed  boy,  close  at  my  elbow. 

"  Very,"  I  answered,  as  soon  as  I  could  speak. 

"So  do  I  —  so  do  we  all.  We  love  her !"  he 
announced,  smiling  as  he  gazed  curiously  into  our 
astonished  faces. 

Jean  Janois  returned  his  smile,  and  I  grasped 
the  little  fellow  by  the  hand. 

As  he  turned  and  ran  across  the  courtyard,  I 
saw  tears  in  Jean's  eyes. 

"  Did  you  recognize  her,  too  ?  "  I  asked. 

REUEL  CROMPTON  TUTTLE. 


t#  tffeef « 


AND  though  the  poet  was  one  of  that  noisy 
band  of  travelers  that  had  sought  shelter 
at  the  inn   for  the  night,  yet  he  differed 
from  each  and  all,  for  he  was  a  man  who  saw  life 
not  as  we  see  it,  and,  being  a  poet,  looked  he  not 
with  poet's  eyes  ? 

The  snug  room  of  the  inn  with  its  roaring  fire 
seemed  cheerful,  as  the  wind  and  rain  played 
havoc  at  the  window  casements,  while,  in  sharp 
contrast  to  the  low  hum  of  voices,  came  ever  and 
anon  the  snapping  of  some  tree's  branch  in  the 
court,  or  a  strange  creaking  sound  as  the  sign  of 
the  "White  Horse"  swung  to  and  fro  on  its  rusted 
hinges.  The  candles  burned  dim,  but  the  fire  was 
bright,  and  when  one  piled  fresh  logs  upon  the 
hearth,  and  the  flames  leaped  up  and  lighted  all 
the  room,  the  poet  drew  aside  from  the  circle  of 
wayfarers  gathered  round  their  mugs  of  ale,  and 
sat  gazing  upon  the  flames,  thinking,  for  he  was  a 
meditative  man.  And  as  he  looked  intently  at  the 
blaze,  and  marked  how  the  seething  flames  thrust 
out  long  red  arms  that  encircled  every  piece  of  the 
wood,  he  saw  a  small  log  and  a  large  log,  from  the 
same  tree,  lying  together  apart  from  the  rest. 


WITH  POET'S  EYES.  35 

And  when  the  flames  reached  them  he  noticed 
that  the  large  log  burned  quickly,  and  turned  to 
ashes,  but  the  smaller  one  resisted  and  was  slower 
in  consuming,  yet  it  was  also  burned  to  ashes,  at 
the  last. 

Now  the  poet  thought  within  himself  of  this, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  flame  of  the  fire  was 
the  flame  of  life,  and  that  a  drama  had  been  played 
out  before  his  eyes.  As  he  sat  he  mused  upon  the 
thing,  and  musing  spoke,  while  his  companions 
drew  near  that  they  might  catch  his  words,  for  he 
was  of  repute  amongst  them  all.  And  the  poet 
told  his  tale,  and  said  : — 

"  Would  that  we  could  see  return  to  us  those 
days  of  good  Queen  Bess  who  ruled  our  land  so 
wisely  and  so  well, —  those  days  of  chivalry,  when 
life  and  love  were  free,  when  bravery  was  its  own 
reward,  and  stainless  honor  ruled  in  the  hearts  of 
men  !  But  the  past  is  past !  Now  in  those  days, 
those  golden  days  of  which  I  speak,  there  lived  a 
sailor  lad,  brave  and  true  as  is  every  British  sailor ; 
and  beneath  his  coat,  his  blue  coat  with  its  rows  of 
shining  buttons,  there  was  a  heart  that  throbbed 
with  love  for  that  dear  country,  his  own  native 
land.  And  he  longed  for  the  coming  time  when 
he  could  fight  for  her  causes  as  for  his  causes,  and 
defend  her  honor  as  his  own. 

"  The  sailor  was  but  a  boy,  yet  he  loved  with 
all  the  love  of  his  boyish  heart  a  maiden  whom  he 
had  known  since  the  time,  when  years  ago  they 
wandered  through  the  dales  of  his  dear  home, 
hand  clasped  in  hand.  Nor  did  he  love  and  woo 


3g  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

her  in  vain,  for  she  gave  her  heart  to  him,  and 
joyfully  she  thought  of  her  bonnie  laddie  who  in 
years  to  come  would  be  her  shield  and  stay,  and 
locked  in  whose  protecting  arms  every  grief  could 
be  conquered  and  every  fear  defied. 

"But  happiness  must  have  an  end  and  the 
sailor  must  face  the  stormy  sea,  and  far  from  home, 
and  far  from  her  whom  he  loved,  must  he  fight 
his  country's  battles  till  he  could  return  again. 
Yet  ever  in  dreams  would  his  spirit  fly  to  the  little 
low-roofed  cottage  and  linger  with  the  loved  ones 
there.  And  the  maiden  left  alone  would  pray  to 
the  God  above,  that  His  watchful  care  might  ever 
surround  her  laddie,  'till  he  could  come  to  her 
from  his  wanderings  on  the  sea.  But  why  did  the 
God  of  love  not  hear  her  prayer,  or,  hearing,  fail  to 
grant  it?  We  cannot  say  —  time  rules  us  all,  and 
fate  is  fate ! 

"  Deep  down  beneath  the  waves  of  the  stormy 
northern  sea  he  found  a  grave.  For  three  long 
centuries  have  the  winds  dashed  into  whitened 
foam  the  waters  that  surge  above  his  breast. 
While  far  from  where  he  lies,  far  off  in  dear  old 
England,  the  land  he  loved  so  well,  in  the  years 
that  came  they  laid  to  rest  in  a  quiet  churchyard 
a  gray-haired  woman.  Wearied  and  worn  with 
watching  she  sleeps  with  a  peaceful  smile  upon 
her  face,  awaiting  the  time  when  love  shall  meet 
with  love  again. 

"'Tis  a  simple  tale,  my  friends,  and  one  of 
years  long  gone,"  the  poet  said,  "but  bear  in  mind 
that  hearts  were  truly  hearts  and  faithful  love  was 
faithful  love  three  centuries  ago." 


WITH  POET'S  EYES. 


37 


The  poet,  having  spoken,  turned  and  looked 
upon  his  friends,  but  one  was  gone,  and  another 
was  not  listening,  and  still  another  drowsed.  So 
he  turned  once  more  to  the  fire  and  pondered 
with  himself  why  they  had  shown  no  interest  in 
his  tale.  It  was  too  long,  the  poet  thought,  or 
mayhap  it  was  too  short,  or  yet  because  it  hap 
pened  so  many,  many  years  ago  they  felt  no  interest 
in  it.  Thus  mused  the  poet  with  himself,  for  he  was 
a  man  who  saw  life  not  as  we  see  it,  and  being  a 
poet,  looked  he  not  with  poet's  eyes  ? 

Ah,  foolish  man,  'twas  not  that  thy  tale  was 
long  or  that  thy  tale  was  short ;  'twas  not  that  it 
spoke  of  men  and  times  now  passed,  nay,  not  for 
these  things  did  men  fail  to  hear  thee,  or  hearing, 
gave  no  thought !  Hadst  thou  but  spoken  to  them 
of  false  and  fickle  vows,  of  broken  hearts  that 
mend  themselves,  and  love  that  dies  and  lives,  and 
dies  and  lives  again,  thou  mightest  have  made  thy 
tale  full  twice  as  long,  and  men  would  still  have 
listened  and  even  begged  for  more.  Humanity 
you  know  not,  nor  ever  can,  while  you  hold  to 
your  simple  views  of  a  simple  life.  'Tis  not  the 
dove  which,  tame,  feeds  from  the  hands  and  builds 
its  nest  and  rears  its  young  in  quiet  and  secluded 
spots,  it  is  the  vulture  which,  with  loud  cries  and 
hoarse  shrieks  of  satisfaction,  swoops  down  upon 
the  carrion  only  and  claws  it  with  its  horrid  talons, 
and  tears  it  with  its  sharpened  beak,  and  is  not 
content  until  it  lays  bare  a  rotting  and  putrid 
heart. 

Oh,  gentle-minded  poet,  such  is  the  world  you 
live  in,  such  are  the  men  you  meet ! 
4 

362026 


3g  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

Yet  the  poet  thought  not  thus,  but  while  the 
wind  still  drove  the  rain  against  the  casement,  and 
the  huge  trees  in  the  court  still  swayed  and  tossed 
their  creaking  branches,  he  sat  by  the  dying  glow 
of  the  fire  musing  as  ever,  and  blaming  himself 
that  the  tale  had  been  too  long,  and  the  time  and 
place  too  far  away. 

DAVID  WILLARD. 


ffle  Coffee 

A  FARCE. 


Scene. —  The  breakfast  table. 

Dramatis  Persona : — 

PAUL. —  An  only  son  —  away  at  college. 

CHARLES. —  Paul's  father  comfortable,  complaisant ; 
coffee  cup  in  one  hand,  newspaper  in  the  other  ;  head  bald 
as  a  billiard  ball  and  gilded  in  patches  by  the  sun  shin 
ing  through  geraniums. 

EDITH. —  Paul's  little  cross-eyed  sister  with  a  yellow 
pig-tail ;  sullenly  eating  a  big  plate  of  oat-meal,  which 
she  abominates  with  an  utter  abomination. 

AUNT  SUE. —  A  grimly  conscientious  lady  who  was 
never  young  and  whose  milk  of  human  kindness  —  she 
would  indignantly  deny  it  —  is  diluted.  Her  only  real 
pleasures  lie  in  visiting  the  Chamber  of  Horrors  and 
reading  the  Old  Testament.  Estimable  woman !  She 
takes  the  place  of  a  mother  to  the  children,  and  is  sitting 
at  the  head  of  the  table  among  shining  urns. 

GRANDPA. —  Deaf. 

WAITRESS. 

CURTAIN  RISES. 

AUNT    SUE     (in     agitated   falsetto]  —  Charles, 
Charles,  do  put  up  that  paper  and  attend 
to  breakfast.     You  make  it  so  hard  for  the 
servant,  and  she's  always  complaining  about  it  to 
me.     Come,  don't  be  so  disagreeable. 


._  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

4° 

CHARLES  (absently  and  thoroughly  absorbed  in  the 
paper)  —  Yes,  dear,  yes,  dear. 

AUNT  SUE. —  Edith,  if  you  can't  sit  up  any 
straighter  Janet  will  get  you  a  sofa  pillow.  There, 
that  will  do !  I  can't  allow  my  little  girl  to  lounge 
at  the  table. 

EDITH  (sulkily)  —  Please  gimmy  a  fried  cate  ! 

AUNT  SUE. —  No,  Edith,  I  don't  approve  of 
greasy  fried  cakes  (helping  herself  to  one)  for  chil 
dren.  Grown-up  people  can  eat  with  perfect  pro 
priety  what  would  be  very  injurious  to  little  girls. 

EDITH  (with  a  sob]  —  Please  gimmy  a  biscuit ! 

AUNT  SUE  (wearily)  —  Edith,  you  make  it  very 
hard  for  me.  If  my  little  girl  wants  to  suffer 
agonies  from  indigestion  after  she  becomes  a  young 
lady,  why  (in  sudden  passion)  just  take  a  hot  biscuit ! 
Take  it !  Take  it  and  make  yourself  sick  !  Make 
me  sit  up  with  you  all  night !  —  Me  an  invalid ! 
(Calmly)  —  You  can't  have  a  thing  till  you  stop 
your  snivelling. 

( Waitress  enters  with  a  letter  for  "  Charles  Endi- 
cott,  Esq."  and  lays  it  by  his  plate. 

CHARLES  (buried  in  newspaper)  —  Humph ! 
(glances  at  envelope)  Ha !  (reads) :  "  If  not  called 
for  in  three  days  return  to  Dr.  Hogg,  President  of 
Suspension  College."  (Drops  newspaper?)  Why,  its 
about  Paul !  I  hope  he  hasn't  been  doing  any 
thing. 

AUNT  SUE  (with  stinging  sarcasm)  —  Doing  any 
thing  !  Of  course  he  hasn't  been  doing  anything  ! 
I  wonder  that  you  send  him  to  college,  Charles. 
I  know  he's  only  flinging  his  time  away  with  evil 


OVER  THE   COFFEE   CUPS.  4! 

associates  and  learning  wicked  habits,  and  if  I 
only  had  my  way 

EDITH  (thrusting  her  devoted  head  between  the  open 
jaws  of  a  lioness)  —  Paul  is  a  good  boy  !  He  is  not 
wicked  !  And  I  love  him  ! 

AUNT  SUE. —  Let  me  hear  another  word  from 
you,  and  you  go  upstairs  to  bed  ! 

(Charles  dashes  letter  to  the  table  with  a  slam  ;  cloth 
becomes  a  morass  of  coffee.  Then  silence. 

CHARLES. —  I  am  bitterly  disappointed  in  that 
boy,  bitterly  disappointed.  He  has  been  sus 
pended  from  college  —  a  son  of  mine  !  — and  is 
coming  home. 

AUNT  SUE. —  Well,  I  hope  you're  satisfied  now  ! 
I  always  said  so  !  I  always  expected  something  of 
the  kind — always!  Am  surprised  that  it  didn't 
happen  long  ago  !  If  I  were  you  I'd  just  shut  the 
door  in 

GRANDPA  (deaf  as  an  adder  but  wiser)  —  Charles, 
the  sooner  you  buy  that  boy  a  shovel  and  wheel 
barrow  and  set  him  to  work,  the  better ! 

EDITH  (passionately)  —  Paul  isn't  wasting  his  op 
portunities  and  he  shan't  go  to  work  ! 

AUNT  SUE. —  Edith  Endicott,  look  me  straight 
in  the  face ! 

(Dead  silence ;  clock  ticks  patiently;  exit  Edith 
from  the  room  in  tears. 

AUNT  SUE. —  There  now!  This  has  brought 
on  my  palpitation  again.  (Idly)  —  Oh  no,  it's  of  no 
consequence,  Charles,  none  in  the  least.  No,  I 
shall  not  have  the  doctor !  Charles  Endicott,  if 
you  send  up  the  doctor  I  shall  refuse  to  see  him ! 
4* 


42  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

I  shall  suffer  patiently  and  in  silence,  as  I  always 
do.  Oh,  certainly,  you  were  perfectly  right !  You 
kept  right  on  indulging  him,  and  pampering  him, 
and  letting  him  fritter  money  away.  I  thought 
sure  you  wanted  to  see  him  come  home  disgraced  ! 
Women  don't  know  anything  about  bringing  up 
children !  Don't  you  think  it's  about  time  you 
took  my  advice  for  once?  Don't  you  think  it's 
about  time  you  pulled  Paul  up  short  like  an  omni 
bus  horse,  and  made  him  work  ?  Don't  you  think 
that  a  little  firmness,  a  little  severity,  before  it's 
too  late  —  ga,  ga.  (Looks  toward  the  door  with  eyes  of 
agate.  Collapses?) 

Enter  Paul  clad  in  a  little  London  hat,  the  sublime 
airiness  of  whose  pose  is  just  short  of  the  miraculous,  a 
coat  that  was  apparently  constructed  for  the  Siamese 
Twins,  wicked  looking  gaiters,  and  a  wreathing  smile. 
He  staggers  under  the  weight  of  a  dress-suit  case,  gun 
case,  racquet  case,  walking  sticks,  etc.,  and  leads  a  little 
sporting  terrier  by  a  string. 

Charles  stands  pawing  the  ground  like  an  angry 
bull  who  has  sighted  a  red  rag  —  then  bursts  forth  : 

By  Jupiter,  I'll  go  for  you!  I'll  —  ugh!  ugh! 

ugh  ! ugh  !  ugh  !  ugh  ! ugh  !  ugh  !  ugh  ! 

(chokes  in  a  fit  of  coughing.) 

GRANDPA. —  What  a  shocking  overcoat  he's  got 
on,  Charles!  Thoroughly  Bowery!  I  hope  its 
paid  for. 

CHARLES. —  I  hope  it  is  !  (To  Paul,  who  is  about 
to  speak)  —  Don't  you  dare  to  interrupt  me,  sir! 
Don't  you  open  your  mouth  !  So  you  have  come 
back  here  with  your  shame,  have  you,  in  the  dress 


OVER  THE  COFFEE  CUPS.          43 

of  a  gambler,  and  the  character  of  one.  Do  you 
realize,  sir,  that  I'd  rather  see  you  come  home 
in  your  coffin  than  like  this !  Suspended  from 
college  !  (Snorts)  —  Do  you  know  what  that  means  ? 
So  do  I — I  went  to  college  once  myself — hold 
your  tongue  !  It  means  that  you  have  been  drag 
ging  your  name  and  mine  through  every  gin  shop 
and  den  of  vice  in  the  city  and  squandering  your 
money  with  low  people,  and  by  George,  sir,  it 
makes  me  want  to  think  I  never  had  a  son.  Go  to 
your  room. 

EDITH.  (Clattering  down  stairs  and  across  the 
hall)  —  O  —  o  !  Oh,  Paul !  you  dear  thing  !  (hugs 
him]  O  — e! 

(CURTAIN.) 
LUCIAN  WATERMAN  ROGERS. 


(glmiee. 

[Reprinted  from  Short  Stories.] 


September  77,  1793. 

LA  FORCE. 

MY  Dear  Eugene,  you  would  be  grieved  if  you 
could  see  me  now  as  I  sit  writing  to  you 
by  the  dim  light  of  a  feeble  candle. 

Does  it  shock  you  this  heading  of  mine  that 
stares  so  boldly  in  your  startled  eyes  from  the  top 
of  the  page?  Does  it  say  that  I  am  disgraced, 
and  do  you  believe  it  ?  If  so,  pardon  me  for  the 
sake  of  old  times  and  old  friendships.  But  in  the 
old  times  the  King  ruled,  and  we  sang  "O  Rich 
ard,  O  mon  Roi ! "  but  now  the  people  gone  mad 
must  have  their  say  and  we  must  suffer  and  en 
dure  and  listen  to  the  people  sing  "Ca  Ira." 

You  would  ask  how  came  I  here.  When  I 
have  answered,  you  will  say,  what  a  fool  to  have 
gone  back.  Just  so.  Yet  listen. 

You  know  that  when  the  rest  of  us  fled  my 
brother  remained  behind.  He  had  done  much  for 
the  people  and  trusted  to  their  gratitude.  You 
cry  out,  "How  foolish!"  Exactly.  He  thought 
they  would  not  harm  him.  He  was  mistaken. 
They  would  have  torn  a  dog  to  pieces  if  it  had 
borne  my  name. 


AMIEE.  4S 

They  seized  and  condemned  him  to  death.  I 
heard  of  his  imprisonment  and  went  back  to  save 
him.  It  was  unjust  that  he  should  suffer  for  my 
sins.  I  came  too  late.  From  a  sheltering  door 
step  I  saw  the  mad  mob  rush  past  me  and  in  their 
midst,  on  a  pike  held  high  in  the  air,  was  my 
brother's  head.  I  tried  to  get  across  the  frontier 
and  escape,  hiding  in  the  woods  and  under  dung 
hills  by  day,  and  dragging  myself  along  the  road 
by  night,  living  on  refuse  that  the  dogs  would  not 
eat.  In  vain.  I  was  discovered  by  a  vile  ditch- 
digger  from  Rouen,  who,  meeting  me  on  the  road, 
recognized  me,  and,  urged  to  patriotism  by  the  re 
membrance  of  what  he  was  pleased  to  call  his 
daughter's  wrongs,  he  betakes  himself  to  the  vil 
lage  and  reports  his  discovery,  and  so  this  worthy 
patriot,  with  a  score  of  equally  worthy  patriots,  lie 
in  wait  and  seize  me  as  I  stagger  wearily  along. 

The  peasants  have  become  virtuous,  my 
friends,  or  desire  to  appear  so,  and  have  tenacious 
memories  for  former  trifles  that  were  better  for 
gotten.  A  strange  time  is  this  when  the  cattle  are 
become  hypocrites  and  we  nobles  in  sackcloth  and 
ashes  pose  for  martyrs. 

They  placed  me  in  charge  of  an  escort  armed 
with  pikes  and  old  muskets,  and  sent  me  off  to 
Paris  to  the  court  of  condemnation.  I  could  tell 
you  of  things  that  I  saw  en  route  that  would  make 
your  blood  run  cold,  but  I  spare  you.  And  yet, 
this  word  of  warning.  If  you  value  your  heads 
keep  away  from  here,  for  the  people  are  gone  mad, 
and  our  blood  flows  freer  in  the  present  than  ever 
did  our  wine  in  the  past. 


45  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  we  reached  Paris 
the  next  morning,  and  my  trial  came  off  without 
delay.  When  my  worthy  friend,  the  patriot  from 
Rouen,  told  how  he  knew  me  and  ended  up  his  re 
marks  with  a  burst  of  tears,  it  was  all  over  with 
me.  The  galleries  howled  and  stormed :  "  Down 
Lamoutte,  Down  !  To  the  guillotine,  Lamoutte ! " 
You  shoiild  have  heard  them  ! 

The  judge  rang  his  bell  and  the  jurors  voted 
separately,  and  at  every  vote  the  galleries  roared 
anew.  Decreed  in  the  name  of  the  Republic  one  and  in 
divisible  :  —  The  prisoner  is  an  enemy  of  the  People. 
Back  to  La  Force  with  him,  and  death  within  the 
week. 

Cattle  ! 

Picture  to  yourself  a  long,  low  hall  with  hard 
wooden  benches  nailed  to  the  stone  walls,  long, 
narrow  windows  with  great  iron  gratings,  hardly 
admitting  a  ray  of  light.  This  is  our  prison  —  I 
say  ours,  for  there  are  some  six  score  of  us  to 
gether.  Fair-haired  girls  and  grandmothers, 
courtiers,  nobles,  waiting  to  look  out  of  the  little 
•window. 

The  whole  company  rose  and  bowed  to  me  as 
the  jailor  thrust  me  into  the  room,  and  a  tall,  ele 
gantly  formed  man,  with  white  hair  and  face  like  a 
Greek  philosopher,  stepped  forward. 

"  May  I  ask,"  said  he,  bowing  most  courteously, 
"to  what  cause  we  owe  the  pleasure  of  your  com 
pany  ? " 

"The  Republic  is  displeased  with  its  humble 
servant." 

He  smiled  quietly.     "  It  is  a  breach  of  good 


AMIEE.  47 

manners  that  needs  correcting ;  we  are  all,  I  fear, 
sufferers  from  the  same  rudeness,"  was  his  com 
ment.  There  was  a  laugh.  He  then  asked  my 
name  and  condition,  with  the  remark  that  it  would 
be  rude  made  elsewhere,  but  the  time  and  place 
permitted  it.  My  reply  was  evidently  satisfactory, 
for  he  turned  to  the  others  and  said : 

"This  gentleman,  the  Marquis  of  Lamoutte, 
has  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  sent  among  us  for 
a  short  time,  and  I  hope  you  will  all  strive  to 
make  his  stay  as  pleasant  as  possible.  And  you, 
Monsieur,  will,  I  hope,  take  part  in  all  of  our  gay- 
eties  and  be  cheerful  and  entertaining,  forgetting 
your  own  misfortunes  and  striving  to  make  others 
forget  theirs.  This  is  the  only  duty  required  of 
you."  He  then  took  me  by  the  hand  and  led  me 
around  the  circle,  introducing  me  to  all  in  the 
room. 

What  astonished  me  most  was  the  perfect  com 
posure  and  even  gayety  pervading  all  their  actions. 
I  hardly  noticed  an  anxious  look  or  a  nervous 
movement  among  them,  yet  like  myself  they  are 
all  condemned  to  death. 

There  is  one  person  to  whom  I  am  quite  at 
tracted,  a  sweet  young  girl  of  some  twenty  years, 
with  long,  brown  hair  and  very  dark  blue  eyes.  I 
imagine  I  hear  you  laugh.  "  Up  to  the  old  tricks 
again,"  you  say.  You  are  mistaken.  This  is  not 
the  time  nor  place.  Man  goes  to  his  death  better 
than  he  goes  through  life. 

September  i8th. 

Our  life  here  is  a  constant  round  of  theatrical 


.g  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

entertainments,  readings,  game  playing,  and  even 
dancing.  Anything  to  make  the  time  pass  quickly, 
and  keep  our  minds  from  the  thoughts  of  what  the 
future  has  in  store  for  us  all.  Last  night  we  had 
a  little  play  written  by  Madame  Duron,  which  was 
well  presented  by  the  Dramatic  Club.  You  would 
be  surprised  to  have  seen  how  well  the  parts  were 
taken.  We  are  to  have  another  performance  to 
night.  If  it  were  not  for  the  gloomy  surroundings, 
wooden  benches,  and  cold  stone  walls,  with  their 
little  windows,  you  would  think  to  see  us  that  we 
were  attending  a  levee  at  the  Tuilleries.  Our 
clothes  are  somewhat  in  need  of  repairing  and 
brushing,  but  our  manners  are,  as  ever,  au  fait. 

The  Count  and  I  have  become  quite  friendly 
since  he  took  me  in  charge  yesterday.  He  com 
manded  the  French  Guard  at  the  palace  on  the 
loth  of  August  —  his  accounts  of  the  affair  are 
most  interesting.  I  asked  him,  if,  in  his  opinion, 
the  King  could  have  crushed  the  revolution  if  he 
had  placed  himself  at  the  head  of  the  Swiss  and 
other  faithful  troops.  He  shook  his  head.  "  It 
might  have  been  ;  there  was  every  chance  of  it 
succeeding.  Even  if  the  King  had  trusted  Du- 
mouriez,  all  would  have  been  well,  but  the  King 
was  weak,  pitifully  weak.  Poor  Louis,  he  was  an 
honest  man,  but  the  hand  of  fate  was  against  him. 
There  was  nought  for  him  but  to  die  as  a  King 
should." 

"I  cannot  see,"  I  said,  "how  you  bear  yourself 
so  calmly  amid  such  scenes  as  these  about  us,  for 
you  always  appear  gay  as  if  there  was  nought  but 


AMIEE.  49 

happiness  in  the  world."  He  looked  at  me  keenly, 
and  an  amused  smile  lighted  up  his  features. 
"  My  dear  Marquis,"  he  said,  placing  his  arm  in 
mine,  as  we  began  to  walk  toward  the  end  of  the 
room.  "A  man  should  forget  himself  in  times 
like  these,  and  live  only  for  others.  I  have  faced 
death  too  often  in  the  service  of  my  king  to  fear 
it  now  when  I  am  in  the  service  of  my  f ellowmen. 
There  are  frail  girls  and  weak  women  here,  and  I 
strive  to  make  them  forget  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
to-morrow,  but  teach  them  to  live  only  in  the 
present.  And  they  are  willing  to  laugh  at  any 
thing,  that  they  may  forget  to  weep."  He  is  a  true 
and  noble  man,  this  Count ;  if  I  were  a  Christian  I 
would  say  "  God  bless  him." 

After  the  play  last  night  I  danced  the  minuet 
with  the  little  girl  I  spoke  of  in  yesterday's  entry. 
Her  name  is  Amie'e  Dumont,  and  she  is  of  Prov 
ence. 

"Monsieur,"  she  said,  when  we  had  taken  our 
place  for  the  dance,  "you  are  from  Provence,  are 
you  not ? "  "I  have  that  pleasure,"  I  replied. 
"  And  may  I  ask  if  you  are  a  relation  of  Richard 
Lamoutte  ? "  "  We  are  one  and  the  same  person." 
Her  eyes  met  mine  and  I  saw  in  them  a  look 
almost  of  hate,  and  certainly  full  of  scorn.  She 
lowered  them  immediately,  and  said  sarcastically, 
"I  have  heard  of  you  before."  "You  might  add 
that  you  have  never  heard  any  good  of  me  ;  that 
would  have  been  nearer  what  you  really  meant." 
"  I  have  heard,  Monsieur,  that  you  took  advantage 
of  the  laws  —  and  that  only  recently.  It  was  a 
6 


e0  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

cruel  thing  to  do  and  one  that  has  caused  much 
bloodshed  and  hatred  in  this  poor  country." 

She  had  continued  to  keep  her  eyes  upon  the 
floor,  but  suddenly  looking  up  into  my  face  added, 
"I  hope  they  slandered  you,  Monsieur."  I  meant 
to  say  they  did,  but  those  deep  eyes  fixed  full  upon 
me,  made  me  hesitate.  "  Alas,  Mademoiselle,  it  is 
but  too  true."  "And  did  you  tell  the  starving 
people  who  came  to  you,  that  you  cared  not 
whether  they  lived  or  died  as  long  as  they  payed 
the  faille  ;  I  heard  this  told  of  you,  too."  I  had  re 
covered  myself  somewhat,  and  answered  meekly 
as  if  I  were  one  bitterly  wronged  : 

"  In  that,  they  slandered  me.  I  was  sorry  to 
see  them  dying,  but  what  could  I  do  ?  They  hated 
and  would  not  trust  me ;  I  did  all  in  my  power, 
and  yet  they  would  have  torn  me  to  pieces  last 
year  had  I  not  escaped." 

She  folded  her  hands  before  her,  and  leaned 
forward  with  upturned  face  as  if  interested. 
"  Why,  then,  did  you  return  if  you  were  in  safety  ? " 
she  asked. 

My  voice  trembled  at  the  memory  of  that 
dreadful  scene  at  Rouen,  and  she  noticed  it,  for 
she  looked  at  me  as  if  astonished  at  my  show  of 
feeling,  and  her  face  seemed  kindlier. 

"  I  had  a  brother  who  was  in  their  hands.  I 
came  back  to  save  him,  to  give  myself  if  need 
be  to  their  vengeance  if  they  would  spare  him." 
"And  you  saw  him?"  "He  was  dead,  Madem 
oiselle,  I  had  come  too  late." 

Just  then  the  dancing  began,  but  I  noticed  that 


AMIEE.  5  z 

she  kept  glancing  at  me  continually  throughout 
the  dance.  After  we  had  finished  she  bade  me 
good  night  without  another  word,  and  went  down 
to  the  other  end  of  the  corridor,  singing  the  old 
royalist  refrain,  "O  Richard,  O  mon  Roi,  1'un- 
iverse  'ti  abandonne." 

September  2Oth. 

O  sleep,  thou  that  comest  to  us  all  in  the  silence 
of  the  night,  bearing  to  the  heart  weary  of  toil 
and  of  vain  struggles  a  certain  rest  and  quiet  from 
daily  temptations,  thou  that  art  a  sign  and  promise 
of  a  deeper  and  everlasting  peace  that  shall  be 
ours  when  the  curtain  falls  upon  the  comedy  of 
our  vanity  and  folly,  how  hast  thou  betrayed  me  ? 
Through  all  the  night  hast  thou  been  summoning 
before  me  the  phantoms  of  past  misdeeds,  and 
hast  awaked  to  resurrection  the  voice  of  a  con 
science  long  slumbering.  But  yet  there  has  been 
this  alleviation  for  thy  betrayal ;  for  through  the 
blackness  of  these  voiceless  shadows  thy  face,  O 
Amiee,  shines  upon  me,  and  I  hear  your  voice  sing 
ing  softly,  "  O,  Richard,  O  mon  Roi." 

Restless  and  unstrung,  I  could  not  sleep  last 
night,  so  I  walked  up  and  down  the  room  to 
rid  myself  of  this  vague  feeling  of  unrest.  I  had 
been  walking  perhaps  half  an  hour  when,  as  I  ap 
proached  the  lower  end  of  the  hall,  I  heard  some 
one  call  me.  Turning  around,  I  found  myself  face 
to  face  with  Mademoiselle. 

"  You  are  restless  to-night,  Monsieur,  or  is  it 
the  cold  ? "  "  The  cold,  surely  —  are  you  suffering 
from  the  same  cause  ? " 


52  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

She  looked  down  shyly  and  her  voice  was  very 
grave  when  she  answered,  "  Yes,  Monsieur,  but  a 
little  nervous,  too.  You  know  I  go  to-morrow." 

I  nodded  thoughtfully.  She  sat  down  on  the 
bench  just  under  the  window  and  motioned  me  to 
sit  beside  her. 

"  May  I  ask  you  a  question,  Monsieur  ? " 

"Whatever  you  wish." 

She  leaned  forward  resting  her  head  on  her 
hand. 

"  Have  you  any  brothers  or  sisters  or  parents 
living,  Monsieur?" 

"No,  they  are  all  dead."  "And  have  you  no 
wife  nor  children  who  will  miss  you  ? "  "  No,  I 
am  alone,  there  will  be  few  to  care,  thank  God." 

She  looked  up  suddenly,  her  hand  on  my  knee. 

"  Hush,  Monsieur  !  That  word  is  never  spoken 
here  but  in  jest " ;  her  voice  grew  wistful,  I 
thought,  from  eagerness.  "  Are  you  a  Christian, 
Monsieur,  may  I  ask?"  "No,  Mademoiselle,"  I 
replied.  "I  am  so  sorry."  Her  voice  quivered, 
seemed  almost  sad. 

"  Will  you  over  there  on  the  bench  keep  still  ? 
Pity  a  man  can't  sleep  in  peace  and  the  last  night, 
too.  Go  to  sleep,  you,  or  keep  still." 

It  was  the  querulous  voice  of  old  Hulot,  the 
farmer-general,  one  of  the  morrow's  victims.  We 
spoke  no  more,  but  sat  silent,  waiting  for  daylight. 
Only  once  she  leaned  over  and  whispered  : 

"Monsieur,  you  will  forgive  me  for  what  I  said 
the  other  night?  I  am  sorry." 

I  pressed  her  hand  gently,  and  we  both  were 


AMIEE.  t3 

still.  A  little  later  she  fell  asleep,  her  head  sink 
ing  upon  my  shoulder.  I  took  off  my  coat  and 
wrapped  it  around  her,  then  leaned  back  against 
the  wall,  to  wait  for  the  dawn.  To-morrow, 
thought  I,  looking  down  upon  that  fair,  sweet  face, 
she  will  be  far  from  here.  She  will  have  reached 
the  goal.  The  voice  of  some  one  speaking  aroused 
me  ;  it  was  the  Count.  He,  too,  was  restless. 

"So  Cupid  has  squeezed  in  even  here,"  he  said 
gallantly,  placing  his  hand  over  his  heart,  bowing 
mockingly  to  me.  "  She  is  asleep,"  I  said,  "  speak 
softly."  He  came  a  little  nearer  and  looked  down 
into  her  face.  There  was  a  real  kindness  and  ten 
derness  in  his  voice  when  he  again  spoke.  "  Poor 
little  girl !  How  much  the  Republic  would  suffer 
if  she  lived.  Don't  move,"  he  said  as  I  shifted  my 
position,  "  let  her  sleep  ;  the  time  flies  swifter  and 
the  agony  of  suspense  will  be  the  shorter.  She 
goes  to-morrow,  does  she  not  ?  "  I  nodded.  "  By 
the  way,"  he  added,  "I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of 
your  company  the  day  after.  The  jailer  told  me 
last  night."  He  bent  over  and  kissed  her  hand 
like  the  old  chevalier  that  he  was,  and  with  a  "  Bon 
soir,  Monsieur,"  he  turned  and  walked  away. 

The  night  seemed  very  long.  I  dared  not  move 
lest  I  should  wake  her,  so  I  sat  still  and  waited. 
Her  fair  young  head,  with  its  wealth  of  long,  brown 
hair  rested  quietly  on  my  shoulder,  her  breath 
came  regular  and  soft. 

It  must  have  been  almost  morning  when  she 
awoke.     "Have  you  been  awake  all  night?"  she 
said,  looking  up  into  my  face.     "  Yes."     "  And  you 
5* 


-.  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

54 

are  shivering  with  cold,  and  have  wrapped  me  in 
your  cloak  to  keep  me  warm  ;  you  are  very  kind.  I 
can  never  repay  you."  "You  owe  me  just  one 
thing,"  I  replied,  "you  will  let  me  kiss  you."  She 
smiled  and  hesitated.  "  Monsieur,  you  may,  just 
once." 

It  was  eight  o'clock  when  the  jailer  came  in 
and  called  but  the  names  of  those  set  apart  for  the 
day.  I  stood  beside  her  when  her  name  was  read, 
and  she  never  winced.  There  was  the  usual  silent 
grasp  of  the  hand  as  friend  parted  from  friend  ; 
sometimes  a  last  kiss  was  given  and  taken  as  they 
went  to  their  places  against  the  wall. 

She  came  back  to  me  when  she  had  gone  the 
rounds.  "  It  is  time  to  say  good  bye,"  she  said. 

I  nodded,  not  daring  to  trust  my  voice. 

She  looked  full  in  my  face  when  I  did  not 
answer.  She  must  have  read  my  thoughts.  "  Did 
you  care  forme  so  much?"  There  was  a  pause  — 

"  Monsieur,  you  may  kiss  me  just  once  more." 

There  was  the  rumbling  of  the  tumbrils  in  the 
court  below,  the  harsh,  monotonous  voice  of  the 
jailer  calling  out  the  names  of  the  doomed  as  they 
passed  separately  through  the  gate.  A  last  lin 
gering  pressure  of  the  hand  and  she  goes.  The 
heavy  gate  swung  back  upon  its  hinges,  and  I  see 
her  no  more,  shall  never  see  her  again  in  all  this 
world,  never.  The  tumbrils  creak  and  rumble  as 
they  pass  through  the  street.  I  listen  until  the 
rumbling  dies  away  in  the  distance. 

This  to  Eugene  Saint  Aubert  of  Coblentz  by  the 
jailer,  Fourmaire.  Let  him  be  rewarded. 

GEORGE  WILLIS  ELLIS. 


ffc 


i. 

THEY  are  crying  their  mellow  wares,  the 
swarthy  fruit  venders,  carelessly  swaying 
under  huge  baskets,  gushing  over  with  great 
clusters  of  purple  and  amber,  amid  tawny  oranges 
and  mandarines  that  glow  like  gold  —  pale  gold 
and  dusky  gold  —  in  the  chill,  keen  air  of  red 
autumn. 

By  the  gray,  foot-worn  steps  of  the  cathedral 
of  the  Holy  Name  and  our  Lady  of  the  Seven  Sor 
rows,  a  shriveled,  white-haired,  old  beggar,  grind 
ing  out  a  lawless  fanfare  on  his  discordant  instru 
ment,  lifts  his  sightless  eyeballs  to  a  cold,  smiling 
sky,  and  cries,  in  a  cracked,  monotonous  voice, 
"  For  the  sake  of  Our  Lady,  pity  the  blind  !  " 

Along  the  long  promenade  rolls  the  slow  surge 
of  glistening  carriages  ;  imperturbable  coachmen 
in  front  ;  discreet  lackeys  behind. 

Here,  crushing  soft,  violet-scented  cushions, 
muffled  in  splendor  of  fur,  and  glow  of  velvet, 
drive  those  whom  the  world  envies  rancorously, 
and  loves  well  —  and  beneath  those  masks  with 
the  painted  smile,  lurk  features  that  are  jaded 
with  the  weariness  of  ever  same  days,  and  distorted 


56  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

with  pride,  avarice,  and  the  other  five  of  the  seven 
sins  that  are  deadly. 

On  the  doors  of  deep-paneled  ebony,  are  em 
blazoned,  here  the  gold  coronet  of  a  fat  English 
duchess,  in  red  ;  there,  a  gilt  cupid,  the  significant 
emblem  of  Lola,  the  commedienne  ;  and  now  the 
proud  arms  of  the  cadaverous,  painted,  old  Marquis 
of  Montbazon  sweep  disdainfully  by. 

In  yonder  carriage  with  the  saffron-hued  liver 
ies,  drawn  by  the  black  horses  that  fret  beneath 
the  soft  jangle  of  their  silver  trappings,  drives  the 
young  son  and  heir  of  that  feeble  old  dotard —  His 
Grace  of  Coela-Ferriers.  By  his  side  a  woman  in 
black  sable,  the  languid  insolence  of  whose  flam 
ing  beauty  dismays. 

Then  the  carriage  passes  on,  and  a  vision  of  a 
scarlet  smile,  half  hidden  under  a  film  of  veil, 
lingers  behind. 

Far  out,  the  indolent,  sleepy  sea  sparkles  like 
the  tremulous  sapphires  on  the  white,  fluttering 
throat  of  a  prima  donna ;  nearer,  it  rolls  shore 
ward  in  long,  lazy,  undulating  swells  that  break, 
and  laps  against  the  crumbling,  gray  pier,  softly, 
like  the  crafty  purr  of  a  demure,  fierce  beast. 

II. 

On  the  broad,  white  pavement,  ragged,  dusky- 
eyed  peasant  boys,  with  bare,  brown  legs,  and 
naked,  sun-bronzed  chests,  are  shrilly  crying  their 
fragrant  merchandise  ;  their  big  baskets  heaped 
high  with  the  sullen  purple  of  violets  and  the  crim- 


"PITY  THE  BLIND."  57 

son  of  roses  that  glow  like  smouldering  coals  in 
the  crisp,  sharp  air  of  the  early  spring-time. 

By  the  gray,  foot-worn  steps  of  the  Cathedral 
of  the  Holy  Name  and  Our  Lady  of  the  Seven 
Sorrows,  a  shriveled,  white-haired  old  beggar, 
grinding  out  a  monotonous  air  on  his  wheezy 
instrument,  lifts  his  dead  eyeballs  to  a  cold,  smil 
ing  sky,  and  cries,  in  a  cracked,  feeble  voice,  "  For 
the  love  of  Our  Lady,  pity  the  blind  !  " 

Along  the  long  promenade,  rolls  the  same  slow 
surge  of  glistening  carriages  ;  but  the  fat  English 
duchess  in  red  is  missing  ;  Lola  no  longer  drives  ; 
deeper  furrows  mar  the  youthful  pink  of  the  old 
Marquis  of  Montbazon's  cheeks  ;  and  sleek  grays 
now  draw  the  carriage  in  which  the  young  Duke 
of  Coela-Ferriers  —  coachman  and  lackeys  decor 
ously  liveried  in  demure  gray  —  sits,  with  an  air  of 
chastened  resignation,  by  the  side  of  his  young 
bride,  a  slim  girl  with  steady  gray  eyes. 

"  The  Coela-Ferriers  has  sown  his  wild  oats. 
They  say  that  three  years  ago  he  —  Holy  Mother! 
what  was  that  ? " 

Out  from  the  turmoil  of  the  paved  street  rings 
a  woman's  cry  ;  and  then,  the  inevitable  crush  of 
the  indifferently  curious.  A  woman,  haggard 
and  worn,  in  shabby  sables,  lies  upon  the  stone 
pavement.  The  indignant  grays  are  brought  to  a 
halt  by  the  gathering  throng. 

Then  the  woman  rises,  hurries  swiftly  into  the 
parting  crowd  and  is  lost.  The  curiously  indiffer 
ent  go  on  their  several  ways  ;  the  episode  is  over  ; 
and  the  restive  grays  once  more  prance  on  to  the 
soft  jangle  of  their  silver  trappings. 


eg  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

His  Grace  of  Coela-Ferriers  yawns  just  a  little 
behind  a  perfectly  gloved  hand  ;  deliberately  re 
moves  his  glass,  and  then  remarks  :  "  Only  a 
swoon,  my  love.  The  crowd,  perhaps ;  or,"  he 
adds  reflectively,  "the  woman  may  have  been 
drinking." 

III. 

Into  those  sparkling  waters  the  suicide  leapt. 
Beneath  their  laughing  waves  her  wan  face  lies 
with  dead,  upturned  eyes,  that  once  mirrored  the 
love  of  his  own. 

Her  last  sin  committed,  her  last  temptation 
victorious,  she  has  found  at  the  last  —  it  may  be  — 
rest. 

Still,  along  the  long  promenade,  the  eternal 
surge  of  carriages  rolls,  and  there,  by  the  gray, 
foot-worn  steps  of  the  Cathedral  of  the  Holy  Name 
and  Our  Lady  of  the  Seven  Sorrows,  the  shriveled, 
white-haired  old  beggar,  grinding  out  a  dreary 
waltz  on  his  wailing  instrument,  lifts  his  unseeing 
eyes  to  a  pitiless,  smiling  sky,  and  plaintively  cries 
—  as  her  dumb,  dead  lips  cannot  cry  —  "  For  the 
love  of  Our  Lady,  pity  the  blind  !  " 

Far  out,  the  indolent,  sleepy  sea  sparkles  like 
the  tremulous  sapphires  on  the  white,  fluttering 
throat  of  the  prima  donna  ;  nearer,  it  rolls  shore 
ward  in  long,  lazy,  undulating  swells  that  break, 
and  laps  against  the  crumbling,  gray  pier,  softly, 
like  the  contented  purr  of  a  sly,  fierce  beast. 

ARTHUR  LESLIE  GREEN. 


i. 

THE  August  sun  made  the  clear  waters  of  the 
lower  Cocheco  look  invitingly  cool.  The 
marsh  grass  along  the  shores  rustled  in  the 
breeze,  and  a  sea  crow,  which  had  been  dreaming 
on  the  top  of  a  long  spar-buoy,  took  flight  with  a 
hoarse  croak.  It  was  not  the  coming  of  one  of  the 
three-masted  schooners  that  were  sometimes  towed 
up  the  river,  like  bound  captives  from  the  ocean, 
that  had  disturbed  him.  The  only  craft  in  sight 
was  a  white  canvas  canoe  with  paddle  blades  alter 
nately  glancing  in  the  sun.  The  man  in  the  canoe 
might  have  been  thirty,  or  possibly  not  more  than 
twenty-five. 

Robert  Vaughn,  or  Bob,  as  his  college  chums, 
whom  he  had  left  at  camp  two  days  before,  would 
have  called  him,  would  doubtless  have  been  de 
scribed  by  a  newspaper  reporter  as  a  "litterateur" 
He  had  taken  his  Ph.D.  at  an  American  Univer 
sity,  and  had  studied  in  Berlin.  There  had  lately 
been  some  talk  among  his  friends  that  a  tutorship 
would  be  offered  him.  But  this  morning  he 
thought  little  of  rank  or  degrees.  The  exhilara 
tion  of  the  morning's  paddle,  and  the  ever-shifting 
aspect  of  the  farms  along  the  river  side,  as  the  tide 


g0  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

bore  on  his  little  craft,  had  routed  all  these 
thoughts  from  his  mind,  and  left  it  clear  as  the 
paper  on  which  he  planned  to  write  a  story  of 
camp  life.  He  often  planned  these  stories,  but 
usually  his  friends,  Brown  or  Honson,  wrote  them. 
They  would  be  so  much  in  Brown's  or  Honson's 
style,  he  thought. 

A  light  breeze  began  to  draw  down  the  river, 
and  he  spread  his  sail.  In  the  middle  of  the  stream 
a  schooner  was  lying  at  anchor,  her  tall  spars  and 
rigging  reflected  in  the  water.  No  life  was  visible 
on  board.  Attracted  by  the  stillness  of  the  vessel, 
Vaughn  steered  close  under  her  bow  and  along 
the  side.  Too  late  he  sees  a  stern  line  stretching 
out  across  the  water.  The  frail  mast  snaps  across 
it  and  he  is  thrown  into  the  tide.  When  he  makes 
his  appearance  again,  sputtering  and  altogether 
disgusted,  he  sees  his  canoe  cheerfully  drifting 
down  stream,  keel  upwards.  He  looks  at  the  quiet 
schooner,  and  then,  with  a  muttered  imprecation, 
strikes  out  toward  the  store.  The  river  is  wide, 
and  it  is  no  small  task  to  swim  the  distance  in 
clinging  clothes.  As  he  gains  the  shallow  water, 
he  notices  a  figure  standing  on  the  bank  evidently 
interested  in  his  safety.  He  flounders  ashore,  fes 
tooned  with  long  streamers  of  eel-grass,  to  be  ac 
costed  by  a  tall  girl  with  rather  a  serious  face,  but 
with  eyes  that  almost  tempt  him  to  say  something 
pretty  about  Hero  and  Leander. 

"  I  hope,  sir,  you  are  not  hurt ;  you  must  come 
up  to  the  house.  Mother  will  be  glad  to  find  some 
dry  clothes  for  you." 


A  MARSH  FLOWER.  6 1 

Vaughn  could  only  mutter  something  about 
"very  kind  —  must  secure  his  canoe."  But  just 
then  he  sees  that  some  farm  hands  have  taken  the 
runaway  in  hand,  and,  as  he  feels  disagreeably  wet 
and  faint,  he  is  glad  to  follow  the  girl  up  the  bank. 

The  house  was  some  distance  back  on  the  high 
bank.  On  the  flat  rock  that  served  as  a  doorstep 
stood  a  motherly-looking  little  woman,  shading 
her  eyes  with  her  hand,  as  she  watched  the  ap 
proach  of  her  daughter  with  the  stranger. 

"  What  has  happened,  Mary  ? "  she  asked. 

"Only  a  slight  ducking,  I  assure  you,  madam," 
interrupted  Vaughn,  "  and  your  daughter  was  so 
kind  as  to  offer  me  your  hospitality." 

II. 

Vaughn's  reception  had  been  so  cordial,  his  sur 
roundings  so  pleasant  at  the  old  farmhouse,  that 
he  had  sought  to  prolong  his  stay. 

Mrs.  Saunders  needed  no  extra  inducements  to 
persuade  her  to  harbor  a  man  who  she  imagined 
looked  like  her  dead  son.  And  good  Farmer  Saun 
ders  was  not  averse  to  so  pleasant  a  companion  as 
Vaughn  proved. 

Of  Mary  Saunders  he  had  seen  much,  yet  she 
she  had  seemed  to  hold  him  at  a  distance  in  all 
their  talks,  and  he  had  never  felt  that  he  quite  un 
derstood  her.  She  was  a  woman  of  cultivation, 
and  of  keen  appreciation  of  the  natural  beauties 
that  surrounded  her  home.  His  first  intimation  of 
her  attainments  had  been  the  finding  of  a  collec- 
6 


62  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

tion  of  excellent  novels  in  the  "  clock-room."  "  The 
Marble  Faun,"  "Off  the  Skelligs,"  "Pendennis," 
and  Miss  Jewett's  "  Marsh  Island "  had  been 
among  the  well-worn  volumes.  Since  then  he  had 
had  many  pleasant  talks  with  her  on  literary  sub 
jects.  On  the  last  two  Sundays  she  had  driven 
him  to  the  little  rubble  stone  church  in  the  market 
town.  These  services,  with  Mary  Saunders  sitting 
in  the  pew  by  his  side,  had  been  such  as  Vaughn 
would  not  soon  forget.  Once  he  had  rowed  her, 
in  her  own  small  boat,  up  one  of  the  branches  of 
the  river  to  call  on  a  friend  in  the  village  there, 
and  twice  she  had  been  out  with  him  in  his  canoe 
at  sunset.  He  became  strangely  attached  to  her 
quiet  ways,  and  had  even  wondered  if  there  was 
any  probability  of  his  falling  in  love. 

This  afternoon  they  were  sitting  together  on 
the  seat  that  had  been  built  by  the  old  poplar  on 
the  bank.  She  was  sketching  the  brickyard,  with  a 
kiln  of  red  bricks,  on  the  opposite  shore.  He  held 
a  book  in  his  hand,  but  had  not  been  reading  for 
some  time.  The  old  poplar  under  which  they  sat, 
standing  alone  on  a  prominent  point  of  the  bank, 
had  been  called  by  the  river  men  "the  widow." 
Vaughn  looked  up  at  its  gnarled  old  trunk  and 
then  down  at  the  fair  young  woman  busily  paint 
ing  at  his  side.  Her  hair  was  golden  brown,  and 
this  afternoon  Vaughn  thought  she  had  arranged 
it  in  a  particularly  becoming  manner.  She  wore 
a  white  muslin  dress,  and  had  fastened  a  bunch  of 
red  poppies  at  her  belt. 

"Couldn't  you  write  a  book  about  the  river, 


A  MARSH   FLOWER.  63 

Mr.  Vaughn,  that  I  could  illustrate  ? "  she  said, 
looking  up  from  her  sketch. 

"  I  did  think  something  of  it,  I  admit,  but  since 
I  have  read  your  copy  of  '  Marsh  Island,'  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  that  the  laureateship  of  the  re 
gion  isn't  vacant." 

"  I  don't  like  '  Marsh  Island '  very  well,"  she  re 
sponded  quickly,  and  then  checked  herself,  as  if 
she  had  said  more  than  she  intended. 

"  Why  not  ? "  inquired  Vaughn,  looking  hard  at 
the  expressive  eyes,  half  hid  by  the  drooping 
lashes,  and  at  the  blush  that  would  come. 

"  I  don't  think  Dorris  Owen  would  have  en 
joyed  life  with  the  ship's  blacksmith.  Why 
couldn't  she  have  married  the  artist?" 

And  what  was  there  to  prevent  him,  Robert 
Vaughn,  from  marrying  her?  The  brickyard 
across  the  river  grew  indistinct.  Should  he  speak  ? 
Might  this  beautiful  woman  be  his  for  the  asking? 
He  hesitated,  and  the  opportunity  slipped  away. 

Mary  Saunders  gathered  her  brushes,  and,  say 
ing  that  her  mother  expected  her  to  get  tea  that 
evening,  left  him  to  his  thoughts. 

A  pleasure  launch  was  passing  at  the  time,  and 
he  heard  the  passengers  laugh  merrily. 

III. 

Vaughn  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  leave 
the  farm  until  long  after  the  marsh  hay  had  been 
cut,  and  the  marshes  had  taken  on  the  yellow  au 
tumnal  color,  contrasting  forcibly  with  the  strips 


6.  TRINITY   vSKETCHES. 

of  blue  water  at  high  tide.  Finally  a  letter  came, 
offering  him  a  tutorship,  and  he  must  go.  He  had 
parted  with  the  good  farmer  and  his  wife  at  the 
door  rock  by  which  he  had  been  so  hospitably  re 
ceived,  and  had  begged  Mary  to  walk  with  him  to 
the  shore. 

An  awkward  silence  had  seemed  likely  to  en 
sue,  and  by  way  of  averting  it,  he  remarked  : 

"  It  is  over  a  month  since  I  was  so  unceremo 
niously  unhorsed  at  your  door." 

"  I  am  sure  you  have  proved  a  very  dutiful 
knight,"  she  answered. 

"  And  will  my  lady  not  give  me  some  token  be 
fore  I  go  again  into  the  fight  ? "  he  asked. 

She  quickly  removed  a  spray  of  late  golden  rod 
from  her  hair  and  gave  it  to  him. 

At  the  old  poplar  he  held  out  his  hand  to  bid 
her  good-bye  ;  their  eyes  met,  and  the  old  feeling 
of  uncertainty  seized  him.  Wild  thoughts  chased 
each  other  through  his  mind  as  she  returned  the 
firm  pressure  of  his  hand.  No  !  He  would  go. 
He  turned  rather  abruptly  and  went  toward  his 
canoe.  As  he  prepared  to  start,  she  stood  watch 
ing  him.  She  held  her  handkerchief  in  her  hand  ; 
was  it  to  wave  a  last  farewell  ? 

The  tide  was  high  and  the  afternoon  sun  shone 
down  into  the  clear  water,  revealing  the  sandy  bot 
tom,  and  an  occasional  cunner  darting  out  from 
the  seaweed.  A  "gundolo,"  with  its  triangular 
sail,  was  moving  slowly  up  the  stream.  Vaughn 
paddled  out  through  the  eelgrass  that  bent  before 
the  bow  of  the  canoe,  to  the  blue  water  beyond. 


A  MARSH   FLOWER.  65 

But  why  should  he  go  ?  What  is  he  going  to  ? 
What  is  he  leaving  ?  He  will  not  go.  He  turns  in 
his  seat,  but  Mary  Saunders  has  turned  toward 
the  high  house,  and  the  old  tree  hides  her  from  his 
sight.  The  bank  covered  with  dry  grass  looks  des 
olate.  Ah  !  If  she  had  waited  but  one  moment 
longer.  He  forces  the  paddle  blades  deep  into  the 
water,  and  the  canoe  moves  easily  forward,  in 
creasing  the  distance  between  them. 

When  she  looks  back  again,  the  little  craft  is 
far  down  the  river.  She  does  not  go  at  once  into 
the  house.  CHARLES  ALBERT  HORNE. 


6* 


Briber*. 


NIGHT  had  flown  over  the  sea  on  the  tremu 
lous  wings  of  a  bat. 

A  murmur  arose  from  the  waters,  a  mur 
mur  as  of  wind  through  the  forest  or  the  sighing 
of  sorrowful  souls  ;  and  the  heavy  waves  rose  and 
fell  like  the  breast  of  one  who  weeps. 

And  now  as  the  moon  climbed  higher  and 
marked  its  pallid  path  on  the  ocean,  the  Spiders  of 
the  Sea  began  their  journey  of  the  night. 

Out  of  the  horrid  hollows  of  the  waves  they 
crept  and,  swarming  into  the  moon's  bright  track, 
darted  hither  and  thither  and  scrambled  over  the 
waters  —  the  Sea  Spiders  with  bodies  of  silver  and 
opal. 

From  the  spot  where  a  tall  ship  had  foundered 
came  floating  the  body  of  a  maiden,  adrift  on  the 
careless,  cruel  waves,  adrift  in  the  night  and  the 
sea.  She  is  borne  into  the  bright  track  of  the 
moon  and  the  spiders  swarm  over  her.  Over  the 
fair,  floating  hair  they  crawl,  and  over  the  wan, 
sunken  eyes,  over  the  shoulder,  over  the  breasts  — 
the  Sea  Spiders,  with  bodies  of  silver  and  opal. 

But  when  the  moon  sits  shuddering  on  the  sea 
in  the  west,  the  bloated  bodies  of  the  spiders  burst 
and  the  moon  drinks  their  blood  —  the  blood  of 
the  obscene  Sea  Spiders,  the  spiders  whose  bodies 
are  opal  and  silver. 

ARTHUR  LESLIE  GREEN. 


(J)terre'0  (Return. 


i. 

FAR  in  the  sunny  south,  by  the  sea  there  is 
a  vineyard,  set  like  a  green  emerald  in  a 
ring-  of  gold. 

For  all  about  are  golden  fields,  where  dull, 
toiling  oxen  plod  beneath  curved  yokes;  and 
gleaming  scythes  cut  sweeping  swathes  through 
yellow  waves  of  wine-swayed  grain. 

Overhead,  in  the  blue  sky,  slow,  silver  swallows 
chase  and  follow  the  lazy  white  clouds  through  all 
the  languid  summer's  drowsy  days. 

Amid  the  gnarled  and  distorted  vines  of  the  old 
vineyard,  bare-headed,  sun-bronzed  peasant  girls 
are  at  work,  plucking  from  under  the  green  leaves 
the  great  clusters  of  purple  or  amber  that  hide 
there. 

Among  the  stooping  figures,  one  —  with  hair 
yellow  like  the  grain  yonder,  and  eyes  as  blue 
as  the  sky  above  —  stands  erect,  and  shading  her 
eyes  with  a  hand  kissed  brown  by  an  August  sun, 
gazes,  longingly,  far  out  at  the  silver  streak  that 
divides  the  blue  of  the  sky  from  the  blue  of  the 
sea. 

"Only    a   little  day,    and  he  will  return,  my 


6g  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

Pierre,  to  bear  me  back  to  the  far  new  land  where 
he  has  toiled  so  long  to  earn  the  home." 

''Only  a  day,"  she  murmurs,  and  wearily 
stoops  again  to  her  toil. 

And  far  away  a  slow  bell  chimes,  lazily,  the 
lagging  hours. 

II. 

In  the  hush  of  the  short,  southern  twilight, 
from  the  gray,  crumbling  tower  of  a  vine-swathed 
church,  encircled  by  brown  fields  in  which  the 
yellow  sheaves  stand  thick,  a  slow  bell  tolls 
drearily. 

Yonder,  on  a  sea  of  quivering  silver,  floats  a 
slender  ship,  its  white  wings  stained  scarlet  by  the 
sullen  glow  of  the  smouldering  west. 

Overhead,  in  the  violet  air,  slow  gray  swallows 
are  hovering. 

Through  the  peace  and  the  silence  of  the  quiet 
country  a  long,  slow  train  of  sun-bronzed  peasants 
weepingly  follow  the  dull,  plodding  oxen  as  they 
drag  slowly,  slowly  over  bright  flowers  and  be 
neath  a  smiling  sky,  a  grim,  creaking  chariot  with 
sable  plumes  nodding  gruesomely. 

Pierre  has  returned. 

ARTHUR  LESLIE  GREEN. 


©inner. 


LEM  came  up  to  the  back  porch  to  deliver 
a  note  from  "  Marse  Adams,"  my  neighbor 
on  the  River  Road.  Lem  was  a  darkey 
of  the  old  school,  a  "gentleman's  gentleman" 
before  the  war,  and  he  had  that  quiet  air  of  polite 
ness  about  him  that  is  conspicuously  absent  in  the 
younger  generation  of  his  race  —  a  politeness 
peculiarly  pleasant  and  conveying  a  sort  of  dignity 
with  it  which,  in  spite  of  rags  and  tatters,  gains  its 
meed  of  respect  and  esteem  from  all,  from  none 
more  than  the  older  class  of  whites,  who  taught 
Lem  and  his  fellows  that  very  lesson. 

The  old  man  stood  there,  hat  in  hand,  while 
I  read  my  note.  It  was  the  day  after  Thanksgiv 
ing,  bleak  and  raw ;  and  the  wind  whipped  the 
long  tails  of  his  aged  coat — former  property  of 
the  aforesaid  Marse  Adams  —  about  his  legs, 
played  with  his  whitening  hair  and  snatched  at 
the  faded  hat.  I  have  spoken  of  him  as  old,  yet  in 
reality  he  was  only  upon  the  border  of  that  last, 
great  period  of  life,  and  had  not  yet  attained  to 
the  dignified  title  of  "Uncle,"  which  distinctly 
marks  a  certain  advanced  stage  of  age  and  infirmi 
ties.  He  tucked  the  note  containing  my  reply 
into  one  pocket,  the  small  coin  that  accompanied 


-0  TRINITY   SKETCHES. 

it  into  another,  and  with  an  elaborate  bow  and 
hearty  "Thankee,  sah,"  prepared  to  return. 

"  Hope  you  had  a  good  dinner  Thanksgiving 
Day,  Lem,"  I  ventured  as  a  parting  remark.  The 
next  moment  I  was  sorry  I  had  spoken,  for  a 
peculiar  melancholy  crept  over  Lem's  face ;  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  then  let  them  hang  in 
a  dejected  manner ;  his  head  declined ;  his  whole 
attitude  showed  that  I  had  struck  a  tender  sub 
ject.  "No,  sah,"  he  said  in  a  peculiarly  grave  and 
earnest  tone.  "It  wuz  a  mighty  po'  dinnah,  sah." 
Then  seeing  the  look  of  inquiry  in  my  face,  he 
sidled  slowly  behind  a  projecting  angle  of  the 
house  out  of  the  wind,  scratching  his  head 
thoughtfully  as  he  did  so,  a  certain  sign  that 
he  had  a  story  to  tell  and  was  anxious  to  tell  it. 
The  day  after  Thanksgiving  is  always  a  dull  one, 
and  I  was  ready  for  any  diversion,  so  I  signified 
my  curiosity  to  learn  the  details  of  the  matter,  and 
he  related  them  accordingly. 

"Seems  to  me  I  nevah  had  sich  luck  befo'  in 
my  life,  Marse  Harry,  and  the'  wa'n't  nobody  to 
blame  but  jis'  myse'f.  Ef  I  hadn't  been  sich  an 
ole  fool  'twould  a  been  all  right.  Dat's  w'at 
makes  it  seem  wus  'en  anything  else.  sah.  Long's 
I've  hunted  possums  to  hev  dat  possum  fool  me 
dat  a  way !  It  wuz  a  mighty  big  possum,  too, 
Marse  Harry ;  seems  to  me  I  nevah  did  see  sich  a 
big  possum  befo'.  I  done  cotch  him  in  de  big 
fiel'  down  back  o'  ole  Mis'  Grange's  co'n  house. 
One  o'  my  dogs  done  put  'im  up  a  big  tree  —  you 
remembah  dat  yaller  dog  Jim  o'  mine,  Marse 


A  DECEPTIVE    DINNER.  7! 

Harry,  de  one  wid  mos'  o'  his  left  eah  chawed 
off  and  de  mark  on  his  nose  'cause  he  fight  so 
much.  Dah  de  possum  wuz  a  settin'  up  in  a 
croth  tryin'  to  hide  hisse'f,  an'  Jim  a  racin'  an' 
tearin'  an'  ba'kin'  'roun'  at  de  bottom  o'  de  tree 
like  he  wuz  crazy.  My  oldes'  boy,  Pete,  wuz  wid 
me.  He's  a  wu'fless,  good-fo-nothin'  sort  o'  boy 
ge'nally,  but  he's  mighty  spry  at  climbin'  trees,  so 
he  'low  to  me,  '  Daddy,  you  jis'  take  you  stick  an' 
hit  the  possum  on  de  haid  w'en  I  shake  him  down ' 
—  I  'spect  he  wan'  to  show  off  befo'  his  po'  ole 
dad.  So  he  clim'  up  de  tree  and  bimeby  down 
came  Mistah  Possum  haid  ovah  heels,  an*  I  hit  'im 
ovah  de  haid,  hahd  as  I  could,  and  dar  he  lay  jis' 
as  quiet  as  a  log,  so  I  'spose'  he  wuz  daid.  Pete 
he  had  a  bag  of  sweet  potatoes  a  cyahyin'  from  ole 
Mis'  Grange's,  but  dey  wuz  enough  room  in  de  bag 
for  de  possum,  so  we  put  'im  in  and  tote  him  home. 
"  My  Ian',  wasn'  my  ole  'oman  'sprise'  to  see  dat 
possum !  We  done  put  him  on  de  table  an'  her 
an'  de  chil'n  jis'  clap  dey  han's  an'  shout.  De 
possum  lay  dah  wid  his  legs  stickin*  up  in  de  aih 
jis'  as  quiet  —  deh  ain  no  use  tellin'  me  dat  possum 
wa'n  daid,  Marse  Harry,  I  jis'  know  he  wuz  ? 
Pretty  soon  Pete  an'  me  wen'  out  an'  de  ole  'oman 
begin  a  mixin'  up  stuffin',  bread  crus'  an'  onions 
an'  some  sage — Marse  Harry,  you'  wife  'low  deh 
ain'  no  bettah  cook  in  dis  county  den  Lucy.  She 
doan'  wan'  no  fuss  when  she's  wukin',  so  she  jis' 
made  all  de  chil'n  get  out  do's,  an'  when  she  done 
mixed  de  stuffin'  she  put  it  in  a  pan  on  de  table  by 
de  possum.  She  had  a  hot  fiah  going'  and  hoisted 


72  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

de  windah  'cause  it  waz  so  wa'm.  Den  she  got  de 
butcher  knife  down  off  de  shelf  to  clean  de  possum 
wid.  She  woan  nevah  clean  nothin'  widout  the 
knife's  sha'p  as  a  razah,  an"  so  she  took  it  out  to  de 
grin'  stone,  side  o'  de  house,  to  sha'pen  it. 

"  Me  an'  Pete  was  a  cuttin*  wood  down  by  de 
cowpen.  Pete  'low  to  me,  '  Daddy,  deah  ain' 
nothin'  so  nice  as  possum,  is  deh  ? '  '  No,  chile, 
deh  ain','  'low  I.  'When  its  got  lots  o'  gravy  an' 
stuffin','  "low  Pete,  '  an'  sweet  potatoes  all  roun'  it 
in  de  bottom  o'  de  pan  ! '  '  Yes,  indeed,  chile,'  I 
'low.  Pete  he  chopped  a  little  w'ile,  den  he  said, 
'  Daddy,  'deed  dat's  de  fates'  possum  I  evah  seen 
sence  I  was  bohn.  Woan'  he  smell  nice  w'en  you 
ca've  him  ? '  My  mouf  wuz  waterin'  so  I  could'n' 
stan'  it.  I  jis'  'low,  'You  good-for-nuffin'  niggah, 
w'y  doan  you  chop  dat  wood  'stid  o'  gassin'  so 
much.  Doan  you  open  yo'  haid  agin  till  you  finish 
dat  pile  o'  wood.'  Jis'  den  dey  wuz  de  awfules' 
yellin'  up  at  de  house.  '  My  Ian',  Daddy,  what's 
dat?'  Pete  cry.  De  yellin'  kep'  a  gittin'  louder  'n 
louder,  an'  den  we  bof  took  off  an'  ran  hahd  as  we 
could  tear ;  and  when  we  got  deh  po'  Lucy  and  de 
chil'n  wuz  cryin'  an'  hollerin',  hollerin'  an'  cryin': 
'  De  possum's  gone !  De  possum's  gone  ! '  Sho' 
enuf  it  had.  While  Lucy  was  a  sha'penin'  de 
knife  de  possum  done  come  to  life  an'  took  hisse'f 
outen  de  windah.  But  dat  wuz  a  mighty  cute 
possum,  Marse  Harry,  foh  w'en  we  look  in  de  pan 
de  stuffin'  wuz  gone  too  !  De  possum  done  eat  it 
all  up  befo'  he  wen' — he  done  stuff  hisse'f  !  " 

ROBERT  TONGUE. 


(p0ifo0o?$g  of  an 


1AM  a  gray-haired  physician  sitting  in  my  study 
after  a  long  night  ride,  smoking  an  old  pipe 
of  mine.  The  room  has  the  old  bachelor 
aspect,  with  deep  set,  red  curtained  windows,  and 
a  professional  looking  desk  in  one  corner.  Strewn 
everywhere  is  a  motley  library,  arranged  in  a  won 
drous  disorder  that  no  hand  but  mine  can  unravel. 
There  is  an  open  fire-place,  some  rare  engravings, 
and  Father  Time  in  the  shape  of  an  old  clock 
ticks  softly  from  the  mantel-piece.  My  pipe 
turned  up  just  now  from  a  heap  of  old  rubbish.  It 
is  short,  made  of  some  dark  wood,  with  the  bowl 
carved  into  a  human  face  with  a  hooked  nose. 
What  a  rush  of  memories  came  over  me  as  I  looked 
at  the  worn-out  object.  It  has  carried  me  back  to 
a  reverie  of  thirty  years  ago,  yes,  to  the  very  day 
when  it  struck  my  fancy  and  I  bought  it.  My 
thoughts  flew  back  even  to  the  days  of  childhood, 
its  little  disappointments,  its  doubts  and  fears  and 
hopes  that  seemed  so  large.  It  is  idle  to  think  of 
them  now  ;  rather  I  will  recall  from  the  past  my 
college  days  over  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago. 
Then  I  was  an  enthusiast,  more  intense  than  most 
of  my  class,  eager  for  the  fray  with  the  world,  and 
looking  forward  in  a  vague  sort  of  way  to  its  end. 
7 


74  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

I  had  plotted  it  all  out  in  my  busy  college  life,  and 
it  read  like  a  romance,  with  trial  in  the  beginning, 
but  soon,  very  soon,  the  last  chapter  with  its  happy 
end.  I  saw  very  little  desert  with  a  great  deal  of 
mirage  in  my  future,  though  then  I  did  not  know 
it  was  mirage. 

I  had  a  burning  ambition  to  be  great.  I  remem 
ber  it  well,  as  I  smoke  my  pipe.  It  has  gone 
where  this  smoke  is  going,  and  where  my  youth 
has  gone.  The  pretty  story  of  the  historic  heroes 
I  was  to  rival  proved  but  a  fable.  I  remember 
well  the  day  that  the  cruel  fact  was  thrust  upon 
me  that  I  was  but  one  of  the  common  crowd.  It 
seemed  a  stifling  of  my  individuality  to  be  let 
down  among  them  from  an  aerial  platform  of  my 
own  making.  There  is  nothing  so  bright  as  the 
quick  play  of  the  young  imagination.  When  one 
is  lowered  to  the  miserable  level  of  mediocrity,  it 
can  never  sparkle  again. 

But  we  forget,  and  the  second  act  of  our  lives 
is  soon  upon  us.  How  quickly  the  fire  glows  and 
then  dies  away  in  dull,  gray  ashes.  Really,  my 
pipe  is  a  work  of  art.  The  hand  that  fashioned  it 
must  have  had  the  true  artist's  inspiration.  The 
cynical  face  of  that  old  man  is  the  artist's  concep 
tion  of  the  man  of  the  world  or  what  the  world  had 
made  of  a  man.  He  has  been  through  it  all,  and 
his  dim  eyes  see  where  mine  are  blind.  For  every 
thing,  he  has  that  wicked,  knowing,  sneering  look. 
He  has  seen  scapegraces  dodge  the  bailiff,  and  has 
smiled  at  thern ;  unmoved,  he  has  seen  young 
prodigals  casting  their  pearls  before  swine.  He 


THE   PHILOSOPHY   OF  AN  OLD   PIPE.  75 

has  seen  fair  maidens  sell  themselves  for  gold,  and 
has  shut  his  eyes.  I  can  imagine  the  poor  sculptor, 
after  devoting  his  life  to  molding  Madonnas, 
angels,  Minervas,  and  forms  of  all  kinds  of  beauty 
and  being,  unrequited  by  a  selfish  world,  to  have 
carved  this  old  man  in  despite  as  an  image  of 
moral  perversion  and  satiety.  Before,  I  have 
always  repulsed  this  view  of  life.  Perhaps  it 
would  have  been  better  if  I  had  not.  But  some 
thing  impelled  me.  In  after  life,  I  have  often 
wondered  what  that  was  ;  and  it  seemed  to  me 
that  it  was  better  to  fail  than  to  believe  the  world 
a  mockery,  as  the  old  man  does,  and  that  there  was 
a  certain  love  that  covered  up  all  disappointments 
and  sorrows. 

I  remember  well,  as  I  sit  smoking  here,  the 
time  when  I  threw  myself  into  work.  I  could  not 
be  a  world- wide  hero,  but  there  was  still  much  for 
me  to  gain.  The  prize  could  not  be  far  off,  and  if 
I  were  willing  to  work  it  would  come  soon.  I 
could  see  the  glittering  objects  of  my  fancy  not 
far  ahead,  and  I  knew  they  would  be  easy  to  reach. 
I  pressed  on  feverishly  for  a  while,  but  the  glitter 
of  those  prizes  grew  no  brighter.  I  am  fifty  years 
old,  and  the  prizes  are  little  nearer  now. 

But  I  would  have  cared  nothing  for  material 
things  could  I  have  had  my  one  ideal  desire.  The 
ethereal  fancies  of  life  are  most  powerful  with  us. 
In  the  fairy  tale,  Prince  Beaufort  first  slays  the 
dragon  and  then  kneels  at  the  feet  of  the  Princess 
Beauxyeux.  I  had  not  slain  the  mythical  dragon, 
but  there  was  still  the  Princess  Beauxyeux.  The 


7g  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

princess  of  my  fancy  seemed  to  me  a  true  woman. 
But  let  me  not  recall  the  long  story  of  my  love 
and  disappointment.  It  is  too  painful  even  now. 

These  memories  and  many  more  are  drawn  out 
by  the  smoke  of  this  historic  pipe.  The  ghosts  of 
broken  faiths,  lost  hopes,  and  buried  loves  come 
crowding  around  me.  To  think  that  a  pipe  should 
have  such  potency  !  "  Ah  !  who  of  us  is  happy  in 
this  world  ?  "  Thackeray  says.  There  is  always 
something  left  undone  that  might  have  been  done. 
We  can  never  quite  reach  the  shore  of  a  paradise 
on  earth. 

But  the  light  of  the  hearth  is  dying,  the  dawn 
is  breaking,  and  my  pipe  has  gone  out.  And  after 
all,  when  the  smoke  wreaths  of  our  fancies  here 
have  vanished,  who  knows  what  dawn  will  break  ? 
It  is  so  unreal,  so  unsatisfying,  this  life  of  ours. 
We  long  to  see  things  as  they  are,  to  grasp  the 
eternal  truths  and  see  the  eternal  beauty.  And 
when  discouraged  by  our  failures,  disheartened  by 
our  weakness,  is  it  wholly  wrong  to  hope,  however 
unreasonably,  that  the  future  will  be  bright,  and 
to  trust,  however  blindly,  in  honor  and  virtue  and 
right  conquering  in  the  end  ? 

UAMES  BIRCKHEAD  BIRCKHEAD. 


of 


THE  Sultan  was  plunged  in  profound  gloom. 
The  empire  was  tranquil,  for  the  Western 
nations  had  not  begun  to  lend  it  money  nor 
to  trouble  it  with  the  absurd  ideas  of  our  Western 
civilization.       Religion    was'  perfectly  orthodox. 
Every  morning  and  evening  the  Muezzin  called 
the  faithful  to  prayers,  and  multitudes  prostrated 
themselves    on   the   stone  pavements  with   their 
faces  towards  the  Holy  City.     The  palace  was  a 
"  stately  pleasure-dome,"  gorgeous  with  brilliant 
marble,  and  surrounded  by   shady  courts.     The 
Sultan  was  young  and  the  Sultana  was  beautiful. 
He  was  all  powerful.     To  wish  was  to  command 
and  to  command  was  to  be  obeyed.     But  yet  the 
Sultan  was  not  happy.     He  moved  about  in  the 
courts  alone,  or  sat  by  the  fountains  engaged  in 
thoughts  that  were  not  pleasant.     He  looked  on  the 
most  famous  and  graceful  of  the  dancing  girls  with 
lack-lustre  eyes.     The  poet,  who  could  relate  tales 
so  interesting  that  his  hearers  almost  forgot  to 
breathe,  failed  to  hold  his  attention.     He  ceased 
to  take  pleasure  even  in  his  favorite  horse,  who 
could  rival  the  swallow's  flight  in  swiftness. 
7* 


73  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

The  Grand  Vizier,  Mahammed  Baba,  and  the 
master  of  the  palace,  Hassan  Ben  Adem,  consulted 
together.  "Of  a  surety,"  said  they,  "some  evil 
djin  has  possession  of  the  commander  of  the  faith 
ful,  for  he  speaks  strange  things  which  no  man 
can  answer,  and  his  eyes  are  continually  cast  down 
to  the  ground."  And  the  news  went  over  the 
whole  city  that  some  evil  spirit  escaped  from  Eblis, 
had  entered  into  the  heart  of  the  Sultan. 

Then  the  Vizier  sought  audience  of  the  Sultan 
and  prostrated  himself  nine  times  and  said,  "  Deign 
to  listen  to  the  humblest  of  thy  slaves,  O  Light  of 
the  World." 

And  the  Sultan  said,  "  Speak." 

Then  the  Vizier  said,  "Thy  slaves  would  fain 
know  why  thou  to  whom  the  world  belongs  art 
sad,  O  Successor  of  the  Prophet  and  lord  of  the 
east." 

Then  the  Sultan  raised  his  eyes  and  said : 
"  Know  then,  that  to  me,  for  some  time  the  world 
seems  evil  and  ruled  by  an  evil  God.  My  father 
gained  the  throne  by  the  murder  of  his  brothers, 
and  always  he  who  does  wrong  receives  honor  and 
praise.  I  see  the  just  man  everywhere  forsaken 
and  his  children  sold  for  slaves.  Are  not  the  mer 
chants  rich  who  give  false  weight,  and  is  not  the 
righteous  man  a  beggar  by  the  wayside,  spurned 
out  of  the  path  by  the  hypocrite  whom  he  bene 
fited  ?  Is  there  anything  stronger  than  the  greed 
of  man,  except  his  lust  ?  To  seek  for  happiness  is 
ignoble,  since  it  is  fruitless,  and  all  things  turn  to 
ashes  in  the  hand.  Therefore,  I  am  sad,  for  the 


AN  APOLOGUE   OF   PESSIMISM. 


79 


world  is  evidently  an  evil  world,  and  made  for  the 
pleasure  of  an  evil  God." 

The  Vizier  answered,  "  These  things  are  as  they 
should  be,  O  Lord  of  the  Universe.  There  is  a 
pleasure  in  fine  raiment,  and  a  greater  pleasure  in 
precious  stones,  and  joy  in  a  woman's  beauty,  and 
in  the  strength  of  a  man's  arms,  and  the  wise  man 
taketh  all  these  things  nor  asketh  whence  they 
come,  since  he  cannot  carry  them  out  of  the 
world,  for  they  belong  to  it.  They  are  his  who 
hath  strength  to  get  and  skill  to  hold,  and  in  the 
end  Allah  maketh  all  things  well  for  the  faithful." 

Then  the  Sultan  called  to  the  chief  Eunuch  and 
said,  "  Let  this  man  be  taken  to  the  executioner." 

Afterwards,  there  came  to  the  palace  an  ancient 
man,  a  stranger.  His  beard  was  white  and  reached 
below  his  waist,  but  his  eyes  were  deep  and  bright 
like  unfathomed  wells.  He  remained  standing 
before  the  master  of  the  palace,  for  he  was  one  of 
the  sacred  tribe  who  dwell  apart  on  the  interior 
mountains  of  Arabia,  and  have  had  the  pure  faith 
since  long  before  the  prophet  gave  it  to  the  world. 
They  look  down  on  the  Egyptians  as  new  comers, 
and  on  the  Jews  as  upstarts  of  yesterday.  Com 
pared  with  them,  the  Greeks  have  "  neither  knowl 
edge  of  antiquity  nor  antiquity  of  knowledge," 
and  they  bow  the  head  to  no  man  except  to  the 
successor  of  the  prophet.  In  his  hand  this  one 
held  a  brazen  horn,  graven  on  the  outside  and  on 
the  inside  with  strange  characters,  and  he  de 
manded  to  be  taken  to  the  Sultan.  When  he  was 
brought  into  the  distant  court  where  the  Sultan 


g0  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

stood  alone,  he  bowed  his  head,  not  with  the  slav 
ish  submission  of  a  subject,  but  with  the  grace  and 
courteous  reverence  of  an  equal  saluting  one  of 
equal  rank,  and  said  : 

"  Tidings  have  been  brought  us  of  thy  malady, 
O  Successor  of  the  Prophet,  and  we  have  known 
that  it  is  that  pain  of  the  heart  which  comes  to 
him  who  sees  that  the  world  is  not  good.  So  hath 
the  heart  of  the  wise  man  been  tortured  since 
the  world  began,  for  only  the  fool  sayeth  the  world 
is  good.  But  Allah  has  so  framed  the  world  that 
it  is  good  to  the  man  who  knows  the  truth.  There 
fore,  O  Light  of  the  East,  this  has  been  formed,  and 
he  who  listens  through  it  shall  learn  the  secret  of 
the  world.  For  they  who  wrought  it  wrought  with 
prayer  and  fasting,  and  uttered  over  it  the  sacred 
texts  which  have  been  handed  down  since  the 
morning  of  creation,  and  the  words  of  power  have 
entered  into  its  atoms  while  they  were  vibrating 
under  the  hammer.  And  they  have  engraved  on 
it  the  two  mighty  names  of  Allah  which  are  never 
spoken,  and  the  characters  which  no  man  can  read 
have  power  over  the  elements  and  compel  the 
truth  from  the  air.  Therefore  it  is,  that  he  who 
listens  through  this  horn  shall  know  all  things 
and  shall  hear  the  harmony  of  the  world.  For  to 
him  who  knows,  the  world  is  a  harmony  and  not  a 
discord. 

Then  the  Sultan  took  the  horn  and  put  it  to  his 
ear,  and  he  heard  all  the  noises  of  the  world  and 
the  beating  of  its  slow  heart  like  confused  mur 
murs.  But  the  beating  of  the  world's  heart  was 


AN  APOLOGUE   OF   PESSIMISM.  gl 

rhythmical  in  its  swell  and  fall,  and  the  multitudi 
nous  sound  of  its  voices  was  sweet  like  the  noises 
one  hears  in  a  swoon.  He  heard  the  sounds  of 
joy  and  peace,  and  at  intervals  the  wailing  sound 
of  despair  and  pain  and  suffering,  the  sighs  of  the 
wounded  on  distant  plains,  the  tremulous  breath  of 
the  dying  man  and  the  recurring  groan  when  a 
new  soul  is  born  into  the  world.  Blended  with 
these  was  a  struggling  chord,  piercingly  sweet  and 
sad,  and  that  was  the  note  of  life  ;  but  it  continu 
ally  passed  into  the  dominant  chord  which  rose 
above  it,  triumphant,  and  that  was  the  note  of 
death. 

Then  the  Sultan  gave  the  horn  back  to  the  old 
man  and  said  : 

"  It  is,  indeed,  a  harmony,  but  even  sadder  than 
the  discord  I  thought  it  to  be.  The  face  of  the 
world  is  bad,  but  far  better  than  the  hideous  secret 
it  hides  in  its  heart.  Increase  of  knowledge  is  but 
increase  of  pain.  I  do  not  wish  to  know  the  truth." 

The  wise  man  took  the  horn  in  silence  and 
bent  to  the  ground,  for  he  felt  that  the  Sultan 
was  wiser  than  he. 

From  that  hour  the  Sultan's  gloom  increased 
tenfold. 


d  QBub  (Bertnan. 


HE  had  looked  in  at  the  club  early  in  the  even 
ing,  but  the  crowd  had  gone  to  Jersey  City, 
to  see  some  prize  fight,  and,  as  there  were 
only  a  few  loungers  in  the  smoking  room,  he  went 
out  and  sauntered  down  town  undecided  where  to 

go- 
He  had  reached  Thirty-Second  street  when  it 

occurred  to  him  that  there  was  to  be  a  bud  german 
at  Mrs.  Van  Rensselaer's  that  evening,  and  a  few 
of  the  older  set  had  been  asked,  himself  included. 
He  had  almost  forgotten  it,  having  gone  out 
rarely  lately,  from  fear  of  meeting  her.  But 
to-night  — .  He  turned  and  retraced  his  steps. 

As  he  went  up  the  steps  of  the  Van  Rensselaer 
mansion,  he  had  planned  his  actions  and  even  what 
he  should  say,  for  he  had  come  in  a  forlorn  hope 
of  seeing  her,  or  that  something  would  happen. 

He  looked  around  the  hall  after  speaking 
to  Mrs.  Van  Rensselaer,  but  she  was  nowhere 
in  sight.  He  walked  through  the  rooms,  and 
chatted  with  a  few  friends,  and  even  danced 
with  some  of  the  buds,  but  not  a  sight  of  her,  and 
he  had  no  desire  to  ask  questions. 

He  had  had  quite  enough  of  it  after  half 
an  hour,  and  determined  to  leave.  There  was 


AT  A  BUD  GERMAN.  83 

no  more  hope.  It  was  ended  for  good,  and  all.  He 
was  a  poor  fool  anyway.  There  was  no  need 
of  dreaming  any  longer.  He  would  go  his  own 
way  as  she  had  gone  her's. 

So  he  left  the  room,  having  done  nothing 
he  had  planned  to  do,  having  said  nothing  he 
had  thought  to  say.  So  like  a  man,  foolish, 
unreasonable,  an  actor,  fit  enough  to  be  the  toy  of 
a  woman,  who  could  have  been  so  unjust. 

There  was  a  log  fire  in  the  open  fireplace 
of  the  anteroom  and  the  flickering  flames  cast  into 
relief  the  figure  of  a  girl  seated  on  one  of  the 
divans,  her  white  dress  contrasting  well  with 
the  green  palms  and  ferns  behind. 

He  was  on  his  way  down  stairs,  but  when  she 
laid  her  hand  upon  the  divan  and  smiled  kindly 
upon  him,  he  went  over  and  and  sat  beside  her. 

She  surveyed  him  quietly  and  smiled  know 
ingly  to  herself,  for  she  knew  men  well,  and 
divined  he  had  something  he  was  anxious  to  talk 
about. 

She  believed  she  knew  just  what  it  was,  being 
also  interested,  and  remained  silent,  knowing 
he  would  broach  the  subject  himself. 

When  he  looked  up  she  was  leaning  back 
against  the  pillow  of  the  divan  watching  Revels, 
who  was  going  down  stairs. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  something,"  he  began  after 
a  few  moments'  conversation  on  commonplaces. 

"  Do  you  ?  What  can  it  be  ? "  She  smiled  at 
him  with  mock  curiosity. 

"  It's  about  her." 


84  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

"Oh,"  said  she,  "you  mean"  —  then  paused  as 
if  doubtful.  "  She's  here  to-night  you  know." 

He  nodded  and  waved  his  hand  toward  the 
other  room.  "  They  told  me." 

She  rested  her  chin  in  her  hand  and  regarded 
him  thoughtfully. 

"  You  must  hate  her,"  she  said  slowly,  "  you 
could  never  trust  her  again  after  what  she  has 
done."  She  waited  a  moment,  watching  him 
closely,  but  he  sat  motionless  without  answering, 
and  she  continued,  "  she  would  never  be  the  same 
to  you  again,  for  you  would  be  quick  to  judge  and 
condemn  her  after  this,  and  you  could  never  feel 
as  kindly  toward  her  as  before." 

He  leaned  back  and  regarded  her  with  a 
troubled  look  in  his  eyes,  then  shook  his  head. 
"I  don't  know.  Do  you  think  it  would  be  that 
way  ? " 

"I  think  it  would." 

He  moved  uncomfortably,  and  thrust  his  hands 
deep  in  his  pockets,  looking  past  and  beyond  her, 
but  he  felt  she  was  watching  him  and  wondered 
why. 

"  Do  you  think  she  is  sorry,  that  she  has  ever 
regretted  what  she  has  done,  that  if  it  were  to  be 
done  again  she  would  —  " 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  slightly. 

"  Perhaps  not.  If  she  were,  would  you  forgive 
her  ? " 

He  did  not  know  how  to  answer,  being  troubled 
and  perplexed.  He  arose  and  stood  gazing 
thoughtfully  at  the  blazing  logs,  without  seeing 


AT  A  BUD  GERMAN.  85 

them.  She  understood,  and  let  him  fight  it  out 
with  himself.  She  was  too  much  a  woman  of  the 
world  to  doubt  how  it  would  end,  and  sat  quietly, 
waiting  for  him  to  speak.  "  If,"  said  he,  "  a  woman 
has  been  unjust  to  a  man  —  and  she  must  know  it 
now  after  all  this  —  time,  is  it  not  her  place  to  tell 
him  so  ?  "  She  placed  her  hand  to  her  head,  and 
smiled  at  him.  It  was  as  she  had  believed  it  would 
be,  his  pride  was  making  a  last  feeble  stand  before 
it  yielded.  "  Yes,  perhaps  she  is  sorry.  It's  quite 
likely." 

"  But  I  don't  know.  Will  you  not  tell  me  what 
you  think  ?  You  must  know  something  about  it. 
Don't  you?" 

She  had  arisen  and  stood  before  him,  one  hand 
holding  up  the  folds  of  her  dress,  the  other  straight 
down  at  her  side,  carelessly  toying  with  her  fan. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  nodding  to  him,  "  I  do.  But 
I  can  tell  you  nothing.  If  a  man  loved  me,  I 
should  expect  him  to  do  much,  very  much  to  spare 
me."  She  turned  as  if  to  leave,  but  paused.  "  She 
was  down  in  the  corridor  a  short  time  ago  ;  Mr. 
Lansing  has  just  gone  into  the  supper  room." 
She  stepped  aside  and  watched  him  go  down 
stairs.  "  Ungrateful  man,"  she  thought  to  herself, 
"  he  didn't  even  thank  me  for  the  hint."  Then 
she  went  in  search  of  Lansing. 

He  was  still  doubtful  as  he  went  down.  She 
had  said  little,  and  he  had  wished  to  hear  so  much. 
He  took  out  his  cigarette  case  as  he  went  along, 
and  determined  to  wait  a  little  while  in  the  smok 
ing  room  before  he  went  in  search  of  her,  though 


86  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

he  realized  his  time  was  short.  Perhaps  he  would 
not  seek  her  at  all ;  it  was  hard  to  say  what  he 
would  do. 

He  was  half  way  down  stairs  before  he  noticed 
there  was  someone  sitting  a  few  steps  below  him, 
a  tall,  slender  figure  in  white  and  lavender,  a  sin 
gle  white  rose  in  the  masses  of  her  hair  fastened 
by  a  silver  dagger.  He  paused  and  rolled  his  cig 
arette  mechanically  between  his  fingers,  then  set 
his  teeth  and  went  on.  He  had  determined  to 
make  no  advances  whatever,  and  stepped  past  her 
without  a  word,  as  if,  in  fact,  he  had  not  seen  her 
sitting  there. 

When  he  reached  the  door  of  the  smoking 
room,  he  looked  back.  A  desire  to  see  how  she 
looked,  to  see  if  she  had  noticed  who  it  was  that 
had  passed  her,  possessed  him  ;  it  was  an  impulse 
that  flashed  upon  him  and  gave  him  no  time  to 
decide  wisely  or  calmly.  Had  the  affair  turned 
other  than  it  did,  he  would  have  condemned  him 
self,  but  it  was  well.  With  so  frail  a  rod  does  fate 
turn  us  to  happiness,  or  drive  us  to  misery.  At  any 
rate,  he  looked  as  if  for  someone  coming  down  the 
stairs  behind  her —  such  actors  are  we  in  our  poor, 
selfish  comedy  —  as  if  it  were  a  stranger  sitting 
on  the  stair. 

She  did  not  move,  but  sat  calmly,  without  a 
trace  of  feeling  in  her  face.  The  light  in  the  hall 
was  not  over  bright,  but  he  could  see  her  distinctly 
and  felt  she  was  watching  him. 

She  made  a  motion  with  her  hand,  a  little  mo 
tion.  She  would  have  denied  it.  He  denied  that 


AT  A   BUD  GERMAN.  87 

he  turned  to  look  at  her.  It  is  immaterial.  He 
found  himself  beside  her.  She  did  not  arise,  and 
her  face  seemed  neither  to  welcome  nor  repel  him. 
Such  a  mask  can  a  woman  wear. 

He  waited,  but  she  did  not  move,  only  her 
great,  dark  eyes  were  on  his  face,  making  him  lose 
calm  control  of  himself.  Such  was  her  power 
over  him.  It  was  well  she  was  a  good  woman  ;  a 
bad  would  have  done  the  devil's  work  that  night. 

"  Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me  ?  "  he  spoke 
quietly,  but  his  voice  was  full  of  trouble. 

"  What  would  you  have  me  say  ? " 

He  leaned  back  against  the  wall,  one  hand  in 
his  pocket,  the  other  stretched  along  the  wainscot 
ing.  "  Only  what  you  can  say  truly  and  best." 

She  lowered  her  eyes.  "  Perhaps  I  ought,"  she 
said  slowly,  "but  it  is  hard,  sometimes,  to  say 
what  one  means  without  saying  too  much." 

He  waited  a  moment  before  replying,  not 
understanding  clearly.  He  felt  he  was  making 
himself  seem  pitifully  weak,  and  it  piqued  him. 
"  I  thought,"  said  he,  and  he  beat  a  tattoo  with  his 
fingers  on  the  wainscoting,  "  you  might  be  sorry 
for  what  has  happened  ;  that  if  it  were  to  be  gone 
over  again,  you  would  not  be  so  quick  to  condemn 
me  ;  that  if  it  were  brought  back  to  the  starting 
point,  you  would  trust  me  a  little  more,  and  my 
enemies  a  little  less."  He  waited  a  moment  and 
then  continued.  "It  has  hurt  me." 

She  made  no  motion  of  sympathy,  and  he 
added  "somewhat."  "I  did  not  think  it  of  you," 
he  went  on,  "  but,"  and  he  made  a  gesture  with 


88  TRINITY   SKETCHES. 

his  hand  that  seemed  to  include  everyone,  "  they 
said  that  it  made  no  difference  to  you  ;  you 
weren't  the  one  to  care  fora  little  thing  like  that." 

"What  did  you  say  ? "  she  asked,  and  he  might 
have  seen  she  was  trembling,  but  he  was  looking 
down  and  did  not  notice. 

"Nothing,"  he  replied,  and  paused.  "Yes,  I 
believe  I  did  say  something  ;  I  said,  '  Why  should 
she  ? ' " 

She  had  turned  from  him,  and  was  leaning 
back  against  the  banisters,  with  her  hands  folded 
in  her  lap,  looking  away  from  him. 

"  You  used  to  tell  me,"  said  she,  and  her  voice 
was  husky,  "  that  a  man  should  learn  to  brave  the 
opinion  of  the  world,  and  a  woman  to  submit  to 
it." 

"  Yes,  I  did  ;  is  it  not  true  ?  A  cynic  once  told 
me,  that  if  a  man  did  not  smirch  his  reputation 
himself,  some  woman's  tongue  would  do  it  for  him, 
and  his  best  friends  would  be  the  first  to  believe. 
I  laughed  at  him  then.  He  was  wiser  than  I.  He 
spoke  truly." 

Her  lips  trembled,  and  she  held  her  hands 
before  her  face,  that  he  might  not  see  the  pain  he 
had  caused  her. 

She  was  not  acting  now,  and  he  saw  his  words 
had  cut  to  the  quick,  and  he  could  not  see  her 
suffer.  "  If  you  would  forgive  me,"  said  he,  as  if 
he  had  forgotten  that  he  should  have  been  the  one 
to  forgive,  "  You  will  give  me  that  rose  from  your 
hair  ;  if  not,  we  will  say  no  more,  for  I  will  never 
ask  you  again." 


AT  A  BUD  GERMAN.  gp 

She  had  recovered  herself,  and  determined  to 
take  a  little  revenge  for  that  speech  that  had  stung 
her  so  plainly.  She  turned  and  smiled  at  him,  but 
with  her  hands  fixed  the  rose  more  firmly  in  her 
hair.  The  hope  that  had  begun  to  dawn,  died 
slowly  out  of  his  face  and  left  it  ashen.  He 
thought  she  was  but  playing  with  him  after  all. 

"  Suppose,"  said  she,  "  that  I  had  promised  it 
to  Mr.  Lansing,  or,  more  probably,  that  I  don't 
care  to  give  it  to  you,  what  then  ?"  and  she  looked 
at  him  with  anxious  eyes. 

''  What  then  ?  "  he  repeated  after  her,  "  why —  " 

She  saw  his  face  hardening,  and  the  lines  of 
his  mouth  deepen,  and  she  spoke  quickly. 

"  Suppose,"  said  she,  "  it  was  the  girl  who  should 
be  forgiven,  not  the  man  ;  that  she  was  sorry,  very 
sorry  for  what  had  happened  ;  that  if  he  could 
trust  her  again  she  would  never  fail  him,  that  if  — " 
she  paused  and  arose  with  her  back  to  him. 

He  sprang  toward  her,  but  stopped  short,  for 
Lansing  was  coming  down  the  stairs  in  search  of 
her. 

As  he  watched  them  go  up  together,  he  saw 
her  gloved  hand  drop  something  over  the  banis 
ters,  that  fluttered  and  fell  on  the  floor  beside  him. 
It  was  a  white  rose  with  its  stem  broken,  but  he 
picked  it  up  and  placed  it  in  his  button-hole. 

There  were  rumors  at  the  club  next  day,  and 
the  report  shared  honors  with  the  Jersey  City  inci 
dent  for  a  week,  and  was  then  forgotten. 

GEORGE  WILLIAM  ELLIS. 


©top  Curfain. 


SCENE:  One,  anyone,  say, for  instance,  the  seventh  of 
the  popular  Unity  Cotillons  with  the  ttsual  adjuncts : 
Somnolent  Chaperons,  politely  bored ;  Pretty  Girls,  and 
Girls  Not  Pretty  —  ingeniously  vivacious;  Animate 
Dress  Suits  in  A  t hie tic  Poses.  Likewise,  the  A rgus-Eyed 
Drop-Curtain,  the  Orchestra,  a  Heterogeneous  Collection 
of  Tawdry  Child's  Toys,  Etc.,  Etc. 

TIME  :  fust  before  the  First  Waltz. 

MISS  Swansdown,  [who,  being-  in  looks  consid 
erably  above,  and  in  intellect  considerably 
below  the  average  college  belle,  is  corre 
spondingly  popular  with  Unity  men]  (to  her  partner] 
—  I  only  regret,  Mr.  Swift,  that  your  irrevocable 
decision  that  all  is  at  an  end  between  us,  was  not 
attained  before  you  decided  to  honor  me  with  this 
german,  and  that  — 

Mr.  Swift  (smiling  bitterly)  — My  decision  !  Par 
don  me,  Miss  Swansdown,  I  am  simply  bending  to 
your  mandate  as  — 

Miss  Swansdown  —  Sir  !  Your  cutting  remarks 
in  the  carriage  as  well  — 

Mr.  Frankinsense  Murre  (running  up,  presents 
Miss  Swansdown  with  a  papier  mache1  pig)  —  Won't 
you  honor  me  ? 

Miss  Swansdown  —  Oh,  thank  you,  Frank.  ( They 


THROUGH  THE  DROP  CURTAIN.       gl 

waltz.}  Weren't  you  glad,  now,  when  Lent  was 
safely  over  ? 

Mr.  Murre  [who  has  a  futurity  of  clerical  aspi 
rations]  —  Ah,  no,  Miss  Swansdown,  we  surely 
miss  the  voluntary  chapel  which,  through  the  pro 
visions  of  an  all  wise  — 

Miss  Swansdown  (interrupting)  —  Ah,  yes,  but 
then,  you  have  denied  yourself  so.  No,  no,  don't 
deny  it.  Your  pallor  and  the  black  rings  under 
your  eyes  speak  eloquently  (as  they  waltz  into  the 
obsolete  May  pole  figure  to  the  man  on  her  right}. 
There,  now,  I  appeal  to  Mr.  Batt.  Did  not  he  fast, 
Mr.  Batt  ? 

Mr,  Allnite  Batt  (ivho  loves  to  put  his  foot  in  it}  — 
Fast,  well,  rawthaw.  Stein  record  for  three  years, 
you  know. 

|  In  his  i  nculpating  protestations,  Mr.  Murre  succeeds  in 
completely  muddling  the  intricate  figure,  the  subject  of  so 
much  nocturnal  thought.] 

Mr.  Duke  Swellington  (who  leads  —  semi-audibly) 


[They  return  to  Mr.  Swift,  who  is  the  richer  by  a  Japa 
nese  doll  and  an  apathetic  looking  cotton  stork,  which  Miss 
Swansdown  observes,  and  her  heart  congeals.] 

Mr.  Murre  —  Won't  you  give  me  the  inter 
mission  ? 

Miss  Swansdown  (Jialf  glancing  at  her  partner  who 
is  talking  glibly  with  Miss  Elva  Langdon  on  his  left)  — 
I'm  sorry,  but  —  but  I've  given  it  to  Mr.  Swift. 

Mr.  Swift  (ivhose  smile  freezes)  — I'm  sure  — 

Miss  Swansdown  (laughing  nervously)  —  See  you 
again,  Mr.  Murre. 


p2  TRINITY   SKETCHES. 

Mr.  Swift — I'm  sure  I  am  quite. 

[A  large,  athletic  looking  young  man  rushes  up,  trips,  bal 
ances  himself,  and  hurls  into  Miss  Swansdown's  lap  a  rubber 
lizard.] 

Miss  Swansdown —  Ah,  how  do,  Mr.  Goal,  nice 
time  ? 

Mr.  G.  Fielding  Goal  [the  young  gentleman  who 
says  "  yes,  ma'am  "]  —  Yes,  ma'am. 

Miss  Swansdown  (as  they  lead  out)  —  Now,  do  you 
athletic  gods  ever  enjoy  anything  as  ethereal  as  a 
German  ? 

Mr.  Goal  —  Yes,  ma'am. 

Miss  Swansdown  —  Now  really.  (Sighing.)  You 
blase"  men  are  so  infatuating. 

Mr.  Goal  (radiantly)  —  No,  ma'am.  It's  you 
who  are  infatuating.  How  —  how  fragrant  your 
violets  are.  "There's,  violets — they're  for 
thoughts,"  you  know. 

Miss  Swansdown  —  Oh,  you  are  so  very,  very 
clever.  The  intermission  ?  (as  they  return.)  I'm 
sorry  I've  promised  it.  'Evening. 

[In  the  next  round,  they  do  not  lead  out,  but  Miss  Enid 
Cardinall  favors  Mr.  Swift  with  a  red  spotted  jack  in  a  blue 
striped  box,  then  Mr.  P.  Crashington  Pose  glides  up  to  Miss 
Swansdown.  Oddly  enough,  he,  too,  has  escaped  being 
favored.] 

Mr.  Pose  (posing)  —  Good  evening,  Miss  Swans- 
down  ;  our  friend,  Miss  Cardinall,  seems  to  be  re 
ceiving  considerable  attention  from  George. 

Miss  Swansdown  (ivincing)  —  I  —  I  hadn't  noticed. 
Who  is  this  Miss  Cardinall  ? 


THROUGH  THE  DROP  CURTAIN. 


93 


Mr.  Pose  —  What  !  Not  to  know  Miss  Cardinall 
argues  yourself  unknown.  But  you  can  meet  her 
at  my  olive  tea  to-morrow. 

Miss  Swansdown  —  Ah,  yes,  such  a  nice  idea. 
Everybody  will  be  there,  I  suppose. 

Mr.  Pose  [who  deals  in  idioms  and  phrases]  — 
Yes,  drastic  recommendation  that.  However,  I 
never  cut  anyone.  (As  Mr.  Swift  returns.)  Ah, 
here  is  your  delinquent  gallant.  I  yield  to  a  better. 

[Mr.  Swift  and  Miss  Swansdown  lead  out  separating  at  the 
first  signal  (six  are  usually  required).  Mr.  Swift  offers  Miss 
Eva  DuPois  a  red  snake,  and  Miss  Swansdown  presents  Mr. 
Digge  among  the  stags,  with  a  charming  smile  and  a  German 
beer  mug.] 

Miss  Swansdown  —  And  so,  Mr.  Digge,  books 
aside,  you  revel  in  the  dance  ? 

Mr.  Grindely  Digge  (of  the  Golden  Key,  poor  thing) 

—  Yes,  a  brief  respite,  beloved  metaphysics  soon 
calls. 

[They  waltz,  and  Mr.  Digge,  after  indulging  in  some  bar 
baric  evolutions,  slips  and  falls  upon  the  floor,  which  is  as 
slippery  as  truth.  He  retires  in  confusion,  leaving  Miss 
Swansdown  alone  in  the  center  of  the  hall.] 

Mr.  Swift  (hurrying  up)  —  Do  let  me  take  you 
to  our  seat. 

Miss  Swansdown  (melting}  —  Thank  you,  George. 
Mr.  Su'ift — Phyllis,  don't  you  think  — 

[At  this  stage,  young  Mr.  Blazay  presents  Miss  Swans- 
down  with  the  devil,  in  the  similitude  of  a  small  gray  ape  on 
a  painted  green  stick.] 

Mr.  Blazay  [surfeited  of  the  world  at  nineteen] 

—  Shan't  we  valse,  Miss  Phyllis  ? 


p.  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

Miss  Swansdown  (with  a  backward  glance  at  Mr. 
Swift)  —  Oh,  thank  you.  Jolly  cotillon. 

Mr.  Blazay  (with  a  shrug}  —  Jolly!  Jolly  ! !  Bored 
to  death,  you  know !  Heavens  !  these  abortive 
concoctions  of  satan  —  !  Gad,  you  know  !  Can't 
imagine  why  I  came,  m'sure.  Girls  stupid.  Tired 
of  swim.  Heavens,  you  know.  Even  frappee 
salted  ! 

Miss  Swansdown  —  Why  do  you  endure  us  ? 

Mr.  Blazay  —  Oh,  you  amuse  me,  you  know. 
See  right  through  you.  Awful,  though.  'Soir, 
you  really  can  valse.  (Returns  to  his  sttffering  part 
ner} 

Mr.  Swift  —  Now,  Phyllis,  I  want  to  — 

Mr.  Swellington  (who  leaves}  —  Lead  out,  George. 

Mr.  Swift  (as  they  polka)  —  Don't  you  think  that 
you  —  that  we  —  I  mean  why  is  it  ?  — 

[Here  the  ebony  signal  of  the  leader,  and  Miss  Swans- 
down  rushes  away  to  give  a  brown  paper  heart  to  Tableton 
Litt.] 

Mr.  Tableton  Litt  (u>ho  writes  accepted  articles)  — 
Thanks  so  much. 

Miss  Swansdown  —  Oh,  your  last  Bulletin  Board 
was  so  good,  Mr.  Litt.  Your  sonnet  "  Maud's 
Long  Black  Flowing  Locks,"  was  divine. 

Mr.  Litt  —  You  honor  and  flat  — 

[Here  Mr.  Mamothe  Blawnde  steps  upon  Miss  Swans- 
down's  diminutive  toe,  and  Mr.  Litt  is  obliged  to  assist  her  to 
her  seat.  With  a  broad  grin  Mr.  Blawnde  follows.] 

Mr.  Blawnde  [who  is  often  forgetful  of  the  fact 
that  the  executive  control  of  the  planet  Earth  has 


THROUGH   THE   DROP  CURTAIN. 


95 


been  assumed  by  an  all  wise  providence]  —  Say,  you 
see  !  I'm  awfully  sorry,  really  now,  I  am.  I 
didn't  see  you,  and  then  you  know  I  only  learned 
to  dance  last  fall. 

[Silence  as  Mr.  Blawnde  blushingly  withdraws. 

Then  the  orchestra,  after  a  final  shriek  which  dies  into  a 
discontented  gurgle,  becomes  silent. 

The  various  couples,  taking  advantage  of  the  intermission, 
descend  into  the  gymnasium  below,  where  the  men  enter  in 
to  detail  concerning  the  apparatus  and  their  own  prowess, 
explaining  at  the  same  time  how  ill  they  were  at  the  last 
exhibition. 

The  hall  above  is  entirely  deserted  excepting  by  Mr. 
Swift  and  Miss  Swansdown.  The  latter  is  beginning  to  recover 
from  the  effect  of  Mr.  Blawnde 's  two  hundred  and  thirteen 
pounds.] 

Mr.  Swift  (tenderly)  —  I  am  really  so  sorry. 

Miss  Swansdown  (wickedly)  —  Really  ? 

Mr.  Swift — Why,  yes,  of  course  I  am. 

Miss  Swansdoivn  —  Yes  ? 

Mr.  Swift—  Yes. 

[Pause.] 

Mr.  Swift  —  1   Are  you  ?  — 

Miss  Swansdown  —  J    Did  I  ?  — 

Miss  Swansdown  —  Oh,  pardon,  Mr.  Swift,  what 
were  you  saying  ? 

Mr.  Swift —  Excuse  me,  you  were  about  to 
remark  ?  — 

Mr.    Swift —         ") 

Miss  Swansdown—  }    Oh'  noth  " 

Mr.  Swift  (to  himself)  —  I  half  believe  I  care  as 
much  for  her  as  ever.  Jove,  how  sweet  she  looks 


p6  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

in  that  pink  thing.      Well,  all    her    own    fault. 


Miss  Swansdown  (to  herself)  —  What  a  goose  I 
am,  I'll  be  really  falling  in  love  with  him  if  I  don't 
watch  out.  How  handsome  he  is.  Oh,  I  feel  so 
miserable.  (Sighs.) 

Mr.  Swift  (breaking  pause)  —  Mr.  Pose  seems 
quite  attentive. 

Miss  Swansdown  —  Yes.  To  whom  ?  I  hadn't 
noticed.  Miss  Cardinall,  perhaps  ? 

Mr.  Swift  —  I  think  you  understand  me. 

Miss  Swansdown  —  Why,  no.  What  do  you 
mean  ?  Can't  you  explain  with  all  your  liberal 
education  ? 

Mr.  Swift  —  May  I  ask  what  you  consider  a 
liberal  education  ? 

Miss  Swansdown  (with  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent)  — 
Well,  at  Unity,  a  liberal  education  consists  of  eat 
ing  in  French,  smoking  in  Spanish,  and  drinking 
in  German. 

Mr.  Swift  —  May  I  ask  how  that  applies  to  me  ? 

Miss  Swansdown  —  Oh,  no,  no.  I  never  said 
that  a  liberal  education  applied  to  you,  Mr.  Swift. 

[Pause.] 

Mr.  Swift  —  Really,  Miss  Swansdown,  I  don't 
see  how  you  can  have  the  face  to  flirt  with  a  man 
like  Pose. 

Miss  Swansdown  (laughing)  —  Flirt  with  Mr. 
Pose!  That's  killing. 

Mr.  Swift  —  Oh,  very  well,  laugh  away.  He 
will  make  a  worthy  successor. 


THROUGH  THE  DROP  CURTAIN.       97 

Miss  Swansdown  (innocently)  —  Successor,  to 
whom  ? 

Mr.  Swift — How  easily  and  conveniently  you 
forget. 

Miss  Swansdown  —  Forget  ?   Forget  whom  ? 

Mr.  Swift  —  Forget  !  Yes,  I  suppose  you  forget 
our  ride  home  from  the  last  assembly.  You  forget 
what  you  wrote  when  I  had  my  arm  broken. 
{Bitterly)  You  forget  what  you  said  when  we  walked 
home  together  in  the  snow  storm.  Oh,  yes,  you 
forget  easily. 

Miss  Swansdown  —  Oh,  stop,  stop  !  You  said  I 
was  to  f-f-f orget  — 

Mr.  Swift  —  Yes,  driven  to  it  by  you. 

Miss  Swansdown — Driven?  Who  said  I  was  a 
merciless  coquette  ! 

Mr.  Swift  —  And  who  said  I  was  a  conceited 
egotist  ? 

Miss  Swansdown  {frigidly)  —  May  I  trouble 
you  to  t-t-take  me  t-t-to  (breaking)  —  O  George,  I 
didn't  think  you  could  be  so  cruel.  I  thought  — 
Oh,  I  know  you  never  cared  for  m-m-me  —  but 
I'll  —  Oh,  I'm  so,  so  — 

Mr.  Swift—  Phyllis,  Phyllis,  don't,  dear.  I 
never  meant,  Oh,  don't  you  see  how  I  love  you  ? 
There  !  there  !  and  there  ! 

Miss  Swansdown  —  O,  George.  Don't.  Well, 
if  —  Don't.  There,  I'm  sure  I  saw  that  curtain 
move.  One  more  then. 

Mr.  Swift — Do  forgive  me,  darling.  It  was 
all,  all  my  fault. 

Miss  Swansdown  —  Oh,  no.     It  was  all  mine.     I 
9 


9g  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

was  so  afraid  I  should  lose  you,  and,  and  —  George, 
you  horrid  Goth,  you'll  muss  my  hair.  Wait  until 
we  start  home.  Oh,  there  they  come  back  again. 
Now  do  look  inane  and  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

Mr.  Swift —  Then  you  forgive  me  ? 

Miss  Swansdown —  Forgive  you?    Great  beast! 
of  course  I  do. 

Mr.  Swift — And  you  love  me  again  as  much 
—  more  than  ever  ? 

Miss  Swansdown —  You  silly  boy.     Of  course  I 
do. 

The  Orchestra  —  Boom  Tra-la-la  ;  Boom  Tra-la- 
la  !  Boom  !  Boom  !  !  Boom  !  !  ! 
(Curtain.) 

HARRY  SAFFORD  CANDEE. 


Afternoon 


MR.  Bernadin  Stokes  stood  for  a  moment  on 
the  lower  landing  of  the  staircase. 

He  gazed  through  the  portierres  into 
the  crowded  drawing-rooms,  where  countless  men 
and  women  swarmed,  laughing  and  talking  gayly. 
The  babel  of  tongues  raged  and  swelled  like  the 
surging  sea. 

"  A  fool !  a  fool  you  are,  Stokes,  to  come  back 
to  this  sort  of  thing  again  !  "  he  murmured  to  him 
self,  half  laughing,  as  he  proceeded  to  make  his 
way  slowly  through  the  crowd  and  find  his  hostess. 

His  entrance  was  at  once  noticed.  Fat  dow 
agers  fluttered,  raised  their  glasses,  smiled  and 
bowed  fawningly  as  he  approached.  Men  sur 
veyed  him  with  interest.  He  became  suddenly 
the  center  of  interest,  as  unconsciously  he  moved 
down  the  room  among  familiar  and  unfamiliar 
faces. 

Two  young  girls,  talking  animatedly  with  some 
students,  unobservant  that  they  blocked  his  way, 
were  laughing  heartily  at  an  apparently  good  joke. 
Bernadin  Stokes  listened  involuntarily  for  a  mo 
ment,  waiting  for  a  chance  to  pass. 


I00  TRINITY   SKETCHES. 

"  Yes !  I'll  bet  you  six  pounds  of  Halliard's 
candies  I'm  right !  "  a  tall,  deep-voiced  blonde  was 
declaring  in  tones  of  delicious  assurance. 

"But  where  did  you  find  out?"  asked  one  of 
her  companions,  shyly. 

"Ah!  never  mind;  I've  heard!"  she  whispered 
mysteriously.  "  She  was  a  poor,  country  school- 
marm  —  used  to  be  called  '  Lucindy '  Marks ; 
made  her  own  gowns,  you  know  ;  ate  with  her 
knife,  perhaps,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Ugh  ! 

Ah ! "  with  the  most  wonderful  change  of 

tone  in  the  world  ;  "  It  is  you,  Mr.  Stokes  !  Have 
you  fallen  from  the  sky?  You've  been  very 
naughty  lately,  never  going  anywhere." 

"I'm  flattered,  if  anyone  has  missed  me,  I'm 
sure." 

"  Missed  you  ?  When  the  sun  sets,  you  know, 
the  earth  is  very  dark,"  murmured  the  blonde, 
laughing  heartily  at  her  own  wittiness.  She  was 
about  to  add  something  more,  but  he,  bowing 
rather  coldly,  passed  on  throiigh  the  crowd. 

"  Isn't  he  magnificent  ? "  she  whispered  eagerly, 
looking  around  to  see  if  her  little  attention  had 
been  noticed.  "One  of  the  Stokes',  you  know. 
Family  dates  back  to  Methuselah  !  Tall,  haughty 
and  with  that  unmistakable  air  about  him,  and 
frightfully  clever.  But  about  that  odious  little 
Miss  Marks.  I " 

"Why,  I  believe  this  is  really  Mr.  Bernadin 
Stokes,"  cried  a  slight,  elderly  woman,  who,  turn 
ing  suddenly  in  front  of  him,  walked  backward  as 
she  talked. 


AFTERNOON   "TEA."  IOI 

"  Mrs.  Kirkbright  ? " 

"  Yes,"  smiling  ;  "  Mrs.  Kirkbright.  It's  very 
nice  to  see  you  again,  Mr.  Stokes.  Have  you  come 
back  to  us  for  good  ?  Did  you  ever  see  such  an 
enormous  crowd  ?  Have  you  been  able  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  Mrs.  Sturtevant  Brown  yet  ?  Neither 
have  I.  Aren't  you  almost  crushed  alive  ?  Isn't 
it  perfectly  awful  —  I  mean  the  crowd  ?  Do  you 
know  Miss  Marks,  for  whom,  they  say,  Mrs. 
Brown  gives  this  ?  But  of  course  you  don't.  Such 
funny  stories  regarding  her.  I  never  have  seen 
her  myself,  but  my  daughter  tells  me  there's 
nothing  particularly  attractive  about  her.  Fancy, 
she  pretends  to  be  nineteen  !  Ah,  Mr.  Stokes,  soci 
ety's  changing  dreadfully  fast.  I'm  afraid  you 
won't  know  us  at  all,  now  you're  back  again.  She 

comes  from  the  country,  I  believe There's 

such  a  noise  I  can't  say  a  single  word  !  " 

"  It  is  very  unfortunate." 

"Yes  —  the  noise  —  isn't  it?  I've  so  much  I'd 
like  to  say,  you  know.  Are  you  looking  for  any 
body,  Mr.  Stokes  ?  " 

"No  —  that  is  —  yes  —  I'm  hoping  to  meet  a 
friend  whom  I  expected  to  see  before  this." 

"The  crowd,  you  know,"  despairingly;  "you 
can't  do  a  thing.  I  wish  I  might  see  this  funny 
Miss  Marks.  Ah,  here  we  are  at  last  !  How  do 
you  do,  my  dear  Mrs.  Sturtevant  Brown  ?  We 
have  to  thank  you  for  a  most  charming  tea." 

"  Mrs.  Kirkbright !  "  murmured  the  hostess, 
smiling  absently  as  she  shook  hands,  taking  all  the 
little  lady's  remarks  as  a  matter  of  course  and  not 
9* 


I02  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

listening  to  anything.  Soon,  however,  she  espied 
her  companion  and  the  absent  smile  turned  to  one 
of  present  pleasure. 

"  Mr.  Stokes,"  she  exclaimed  warmly,  as  Mrs. 
Kirkbright  passed  on,  "  I  am  more  than  delighted 
to  see  you  !  You've  been  so  very  difficult  to  se 
cure  lately.  You  must  be  sure  and  come  back  to 
me  in  a  few  moments.  I  shall  have  a  little  leisure 
soon,"  the  lady  whispered,  "  and  I  want  to  have  a 
talk  with  you." 

"  I  will  surely  come,"  he  answered  gravely, 
and  then  moved  on  to  make  room  for  the  people 
behind,  whose  progress  he  impeded. 

Going  through  some  curtains  he  found  himself 
in  a  large,  deliciously  cool  conservatory.  Low 
music  was  coming  from  somewhere  behind  a 
hedge  of  palms  and  ferns.  Pausing,  relieved  at 
having  for  a  moment  found  quiet,  he  turned  to 
examine  a  collection  of  orchids,  and,  as  he  did  so, 
confronted  a  tall  young  lady  who  was  looking  at 
him  with  an  air  of  amusement,  through  the  glass 
which  she  held  to  her  eye. 

"  Miss  Robertson  ?  "  he  said,  a  trifle  surprised. 

"  Mr.  Stokes  ? "  she  murmured,  laughing  and 
imitating  his  tone.  Then  she  added,  after  a  mo 
ment,  "  How  deliciously  calmly  serene  you  look. 
Are  you  sorry  that  you  have  met  me  and  all  this 
heavenly  revery  must  be  broken  by  such  a  paltry 
thing  as  conversation?  You  need  not  talk,  you 
know,  unless  you  wish  to." 

"  Are  you  enjoying  all  this? "  he  asked,  soberly. 


AFTERNOON    "TEA."  IO;j 

"  Hugely,"  she  murmured,  slyly  drawing  down 
the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

"  You  are  the  same  as  ever,  I  see,"  he  ob 
served,  smiling  hardly. 

"  Ah,  no,  Bernadin,  I  am  not  the  same,  I  am  a 
different  being,"  she  said,  pensively,  her  studied 
cynicism  disappearing. 

"Three  years  make  great  changes.  I  have 

been wretched,  Bernadin,  all  that  time."  In 

her  up-turned  eyes  one  could  fancy  there  were 
tears. 

He  did  not  answer  for  a  moment ;  he  was  pick 
ing  an  orchid  to  pieces  which  he  held  in  his  hand. 

"  What  is  the  name  of  this  flower  ? "  he  asked 
at  last. 

"  Bernadin, "  she  began  softly. 

"  It  is  called  the  flower  of  inconstancy,  I  think," 
he  said.  "See,  it  changes  color  if  you  touch  it. 
By  the  way,"  he  continued,  throwing  it  down,  "  Do 
you  happen  to  know  the  Miss  Marks  for  whom 
Mrs.  Brown  is  said  to  give  this  thing  ? " 

An  impatient  look  spread  over  his  companion's 
face,  but  in  a  moment  it  was  gone.  She  laughed 
heartily,  perhaps  a  little  excitedly. 

"What,  that  fright  ?  Has  anyone  been  telling 
you  about  her  ?  Know  her  ?  No ;  I  can  hardly 
say  I  do.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Only  fancy  your  asking  ? 
Why,  she's  a  complete  barbarian  —  a  perfect  guy, 
I'm  told.  Red-haired,  freckled  little  thing.  No 
body  knows  anything  about  her.  I'm  very  anxious 
to  see  her,  but  Mrs.  Manners  told  me  about  two 
minutes  ago  that  she  hasn't  come  yet." 


I04  TRINITY   SKETCHES. 

Again  Bernadin  Stokes  did  not  answer.  He 
seemed  absorbed  in  thought.  Etta  Robertson 
was  silent,  too,  a  moment ;  the  same  plaintive  ex 
pression  stealing  over  her  face. 

"Bernadin,"  she  said  softly,  after  a  moment, 
"  Bernadin,  forgive  me.  I  never  can  forgive  my 
self,  if  you " 

"  Why,  it's  Mr.  Stokes,  as  sure  as  the  world ! 
How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Stokes  ?  I  must  speak  to 
you,"  exclaimed  a  large  lady  who  was  passing  by. 

"I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Trouville," 
cried  the  young  man  with  perceptible  relief. 

"  Here  is  my  daughter,  Edith,  too,"  murmured 
the  lady,  blandly,  contriving  at  the  same  time  to 
bestow  a  very  distant  bow  in  Miss  Robertson's 
direction. 

"  Edith !  come  here,  dear.  You  know  Mr. 
Stokes,  do  you  not  ?  We've  been  away  so  long, 
you  know,  Edith  has  forgotten  everybody.  We 
were  all  last  winter  in  Bermuda,  Mr.  Stokes.  It's 
the  loveliest  place  in  the  world.  I  cried  when  I 
came  away.  But  all  good  times  have  to  come  to 
an  end  and  I  had  to  get  back  to  attend  to  Laura's 
wedding." 

"  Is  your  elder  daughter  to  be  married  ?  "  asked 
the  man  smiling. 

"  Oh,  yes.  Didn't  you  know  it  ?  To  Captain 
Bellingham  —  the  loveliest  Englishman.  There  ! 
I'm  going  to  send  you  away,  Mr.  Stokes,  to  get  me 
some  salad  or  something.  I'm  as  hungry  as  a 
bear.  And  come  right  back.  We'll  have  a  nice 
little  gossip  all  to  ourselves." 


AFTERNOON   "TEA." 


105 


Bernadin  Stokes  disappeared  through  the  cur 
tains.  When  he  came  back  Miss  Robertson  had 
gone. 

"  There  is  such  a  crowd  around  the  tea  table,  I 
thought  my  turn  would  never  come,"  he  declared, 
amusedly. 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  Miss  Marks  ?"  whispered 
Mrs.  Trouville,  mysteriously,  after  they  were  all 
comfortably  settled. 

"  Is  she  here  ? "  Bernadin  Stokes  asked,  sud 
denly. 

"Probably by  this  time.  It's  nearly  six 

and  time  to  go  ;  common  decency  must  make  her 
come  soon.  This  pates  is  delicious,  Mr.  Stokes. 
You  are  not  eating  anything.  What's  the  matter  ? 
I  always  eat  when  I'm  out.  I  think  people  are 
glad  to  have  you.  They  say  the  reason  she  stays 
away  so  long  is  that  she's  afraid  —  won't  know 
how  to  behave,  you  know." 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  the  young  lady  ? "  asked 
Stokes,  a  little  gravely. 

"  No  ;  but  I've  heard  nothing  else  but  '  Miss 
Marks '  since  I  got  back.  I  wonder  if  Hasse  or 
Babenstein  is  catering.  It  tastes  like  Babenstein,  I 
think,  Edith.  Society's  changing  very  fast,  I  fear 
Mr.  Stokes.  To  think  of  such  a  young  person  as 
Miss  Marks,  evidently  an  unmannerly,  calculating 
thing,  coming  in  amongst  us,  when  there  are  so 
many  really  nice  girls  who " 

Mrs.  Trouville  discreetly  left  the  sentence  un 
finished,  contenting  herself  with  bestowing  a  fond 


I06  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

glance  on  her  daughter  and  a  beaming  one  on 
Mr.  Stokes. 

For  some  fifteen  minutes  the  little  group  sat 
chatting.  Then  there  was  a  general  stir  in  the 
conservatory.  It  was  after  six  o'clock  and  every 
one  seemed  suddenly  to  be  leaving. 

"We  must  say  good-night,  I  suppose,"  declared 
Mrs.  Trouville,  regretfully.  "  But  you  must  be 
sure  and  come  and  see  us  —  I  have  Mondays,  you 
know  —  I  believe  we  shall  have  to  leave  without 
seeing  her  after  all." 

"Who  do  you  mean  by  'her,'"  asked  Stokes, 
smiling  radiantly  as  they  came  back  to  the  draw 
ing-room  and  noise  again. 

"  Why, '  the  Marks,'  of  course.  How  provoking 
that  we  couldn't  see  her." 

"  If  you  look  directly  to  the  right  of  Mrs. 
Sturtevant-Brown,  you  will  see  her,"  the  man  at 
her  side  answered  quietly. 

"  Mercy  !  Do  you  know  her  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Trouville  in  amazement,  suddenly  putting  up  her 
glass  and  gazing  in  the  direction  indicated,  eager 
for  what  she  should  see. 

She  saw  a  beautiful  young  girl,  whose  deli 
cately  refined  face  lit  up  with  a  happy  smile  as 
she  quietly  talked  with  her  hostess.  She  was 
small  and  slight,  with  quantities  of  rich  golden 
brown  hair,  tucked  up  under  a  bewitchingly  be 
coming  bonnet.  She  was  dressed  in  soft  grays 
and  carried  a  bouquet  of  pink  tulips  in  her  hand. 

Bernadin  Stokes  had  reached  her  side.  His 
handsome  face  glowed  with  eagerness  as  he  bent 


AFTERNOON   "TEA."  Ioj 

over,  and  in  a  low  voice  murmured  something  in 
her  ear.  The  answer,  too,  was  quite  inaudible, 
but  the  beautiful  girl  seemed  very  happy,  raising 
her  dazzling  gray  eyes  to  his  and  absently  toying 
with  her  bouquet. 

"Who  is  that ?  demanded  Mrs.  Trouville  of 
Miss  Robertson,  who  happened  to  be  standing  at 
her  side. 

"  Don't  you  know  Miss  Marks  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Sturtevant-Brown,  coming  forward  before  the 
other  had  a  chance  to  speak.  "  Is  she  not  lovely  ?  " 
she  continued  admiringly,  "  She  is  engaged  to  be 
married,  you  know,  to  Mr.  Bernadin  Stokes." 

REUEL  CROMPTON  TUTTLE. 


<B»of 


4  4  T  SUPPOSE  escapes  are  impossible,  except  in 
novels  ?"  said  I. 

"  Do  any  of  them  ever  reform  in  here  ?" 
chimed  in  the  theological  student  at  the  same 
moment.  "  What  do  you  think  of  converted  con 
victs,  anyway  ? " 

We  were  sitting  in  the  chief  warden's  cozy 
office  ;  and  feeling  abominably  sober,  too,  in  spite 
of  his  excellent  cigars.  When  one  is  taken  over  a 
great  prison  he  must  be  prepared  to  come  out  a 
little  dejected  —  it  is  the  contagion  of  the  air. 
One  must  not  expect  to  see  a  minstrel  show,  and 
it  is  doubtful  if  he  can  detect  the  melodrama  in  it. 
The  triumph  of  the  law  had  seemed  very  incom 
plete  and  pitiful  as  we  looked  on  that  long  line  of 
men  shuffling  down  the  corridor  in  the  lock-step. 
Many  of  the  faces  were  villainous,  all  were  gloomy. 
An  indescribable  listlessness  about  their  move 
ments  suggested  the  absence  of  the  soul,  and  they 
had  eyes  of  agate.  It  was  such  thoughts  as  these 
that  were  responsible  for  our  almost  painful 
silence,  as  we  sat  there  in  the  warden's  office, 
busily  smoking  his  cigars.  But  the  inquiries  of 
the  theological  student  and  myself,  spoken  sud 
denly  and  in  concert,  had  broken  the  somewhat 
disagreeable  charm.  The  theological  student's 


THE  MAN  WHO  GOT  CONVERTED.  IO9 

voice  was  louder  than  mine,  and  his  questions  were 
longer,  so  he  may  be  said  to  have  had  the  floor. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  converted  convicts,  any 
way  ? "  he  asked. 

The  warden  stopped  short  in  his  perambula 
tions  across  the  room. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  death-bed  repentances  ? " 
he  said. 

"Why,  I  —  I  don't  know!"  the  Theological 
student  spoke  a  trifle  awkwardly. 

"  Well  !  "  The  warden  shrugged  his  shoulders 
a  little.  "I  don't  know  what  I  think  about  prison 
conversions.  They're  both  about  the  same  thing, 
I  guess  —  a  sort  of  a  high  trump  that  men  pull  out 
of  their  sleeves,  to  cheat  either  the  devil  or  the 
prison  officials  out  of  what  belongs  to  'em  —  See  ? 
But  once  in  a  while  the  game's  honest,"  he  added 
hastily. 

The  chief  warden  made  a  very  striking  figure 
as  he  stood  there.  He  had  been  a  general  in  the 
late  war.  When  he  said  "  Go  !  "  to  a  person,  there 
was  a  certain  peculiar  look  in  his  eye  that  induced 
the  individual  to  depart  without  saying  a  word. 
He  was  the  man  a  woman  might  appeal  to  in  a 
crowd. 

"  I  can  tell  you  about  a  fellow  who  got  con 
verted  here,"  resumed  the  warden.  "  He  was 
sent  up  for  ten  years  ;  he  was  the  meanest  brute 
that  ever  put  on  stripes,  and  his  eyes  were  like  a 
snake's.  The  subtle  influence  of  that  man  poi 
soned  the  whole  prison.  He  broke  out  into  the 
corridor  with  a  shoe  knife  one  night,  and  the 
10 


IIO  TRINITY   SKETCHES. 

watchman  shot  at  him  before  he  dropped  it. 
Every  two  or  three  weeks  he'd  have  a  fit  in  his 
cell,  and  curse  till  he  was  hoarse.  Well  !  When 
that  man  got  converted,  we  watched  him  pretty 
close.  We  have  to.  He  came  it  over  the  chaplain 
in  three  months,  but  it  was  several  years  before  he 
fully  convinced  me  of  his  sincerity.  You  never 
saw  such  a  change  come  over  a  person  in  your 
life.  He  was  just  as  respectful  and  obedient — but 
the  great  change  was  in  his  eye  ;  it  lost  the  old 
hang-dog  look  and  was  as  clear  as  a  bell ;  and  he 
held  his  head  up  like  a  man,  too.  You  remember 
that  great  iron  basin  that  was  sunk  into  the  wall 
in  each  cell,  don't  you  ?  " 

We  both  nodded. 

"  There  is  a  little  hole  bored  in  the  bottom  of 
it,"  he  went  on,  "  and  the  acoustics  are  so  arranged 
that  the  sounds  in  the  cell  go  through.  Well, 
every  night,  when  the  watchman  squinted  in,  he 
found  that  man  praying  like  a  fiend  —  every  single 
night,  for  two  years." 

"  You  didn't  think  he  was  shamming  then,  did 
you  ?  "  said  the  theological  student. 

"  I  knew  it  was  a  very  old  game,"  returned  the 
warden,  "  and  thought  he  might  possibly  be  on 
the  make.  But  I  had  to  give  way  at  last.  The 
secret  influence  of  that  man's  life  actually  began 
to  convert  his  fellow  convicts.  One  night  one  of 
the  sick  prisoners  was  dying  in  the  hospital,  and, 
instead  of  asking  for  the  chaplain,  he  requested 
that  the  converted  convict  might  come  in.  You 
could  have  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather.  I 


THE   MAN   WHO  GOT   CONVERTED.  XII 

said  '  Yes,'  and  staid  there  in  the  room.  Well,  sirs! 
The  simple,  unaffected,  manly  way  with  which 
that  convict  spoke  to  the  dying  man  made  my 
eyes  wet.  There  was  no  cant  about  him,  either. 
He  was  the  man  for  the  hour." 

"  The  world  has  more  need  for  that  man,"  said 
I,  "than  the  prison  has." 

"  That's  just  what  I  said  myself,"  exclaimed  the 
warden,  "  and  I  exerted  all  my  influence  in  his 
behalf,  and  managed  to  secure  him  a  full  pardon." 

"  Well  done  !  "  I  cried. 

"  That  shows  what  honesty  will  do  for  a  man," 
said  the  theological  student. 

"  That  isn't  quite  all  of  the  story,  though,"  re 
sumed  the  warden.  "  The  day  I  got  the  pardon 
for  him  he  came  into  the  office  in  a  suit  of  citizen's 
clothes.  He  seemed  all  broken  up.  '  General,' 
said  he,  '  am  I  at  liberty  ?  Are  you  sure  ? '  '  Yes,'  I 
said,  '  and  you  are  my  personal  friend.  If  there  is 
anything  you  want,  name  it.  If  you  want  money 


"'Gentlemen,'  interrupted  the  convict,  —  his 
voice  quavered,  but  he  stood  up  very  straight  — 
'  there  is  only  one  thing  I  am  going  to  ask.  It  is 
just  this.  That  old  Bible,  which  I  learned  to  use 
in  here,  which  has  so  many  associations  for  me, 
and  which  has  changed  the  whole  character  of  my 
life  —  I  want  that  Bible.'  " 

The  theological  student  drew  in  his  breath. 
The  warden  went  on. 

"  I  gave  it  to  him.  Very  carefully  he  received 
it  into  his  hands  —  you  would  have  thought  it  was 


II2  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

a  baby.  Very  reverently  he  raised  it  to  his  lips, 
and  talked  to  it  —  his  words  seemed  choking  him : 
'You  have  done  for  me  more  than  I  thought  you 
would,  you  have  helped  me  more  than  I  hoped 
you  could,  you  have  made  me  what  I  am' —  He 
looked  up.  The  mask  fell  from  his  face.  In  a 
flash  he  was  changed  back  into  his  old  self  again. 
His  voice  rose  into  a  hoarse  shriek  — '  Now  go  to 
Hell  /'  And  slamming  the  book  across  the  room, 
he  burst  it  against  the  wall.  He  went  out  in  one 
of  his  old  fits  of  cursing.  I  shall  never  forget  that 
face  as  he  turned  around  at  the  door.  It  had 
snake's  eyes  again,  and  its  leer  was  Satan's  own." 

The  warden  sat  down,  and  reaching  over  the 
table  picked  a  speckled  cigar  out  of  the  box. 

"By  Jove,  General,"  I  cried,  "how  that  man 
must  have  gloated  over  that  denouement !  how  he 
must  have  repeated  it  over  to  himself  as  he  lay  in 
his  cell  at  night  and  fairly  fed  on  it  in  his  thoughts  ; 
when  one  little  overt  act  of  his  would  have  de 
stroyed  the  hypocrisy  of  years  !  "  The  warden 
remained  silent. 

"Well  !"  I  said,  with  an  unnatural  laugh,  "he 
took  the  trick  !  —  and  that's  the  great  aim  in  life 
after  all.  He  knew  how  to  lay  his  cards  down  !  — 
he  played  the  knave." 

"  No,"  said  the  theological  student,  "he  played 
the  fool." 

The  warden  bit  the  end  off  his  cigar. 

"  That  sort  of  thing  may  take  an  occasional 
trick,"  he  said,  "but  it  can't  win  a  game.  Six 
months  later  he  turned  up  in  Sing  Sing." 

LUCIAN  WATERMAN  ROGERS. 


it  IB 


THE  sun  had  sunk  low,  and  the  last  glowing 
athlete,  striped  like  a  wasp,  had  disappeared 
through  the  gate.  Mr.  Briggs,  who  had 
taken  the  contract  to  cut  the  "  bloomin' "  grass  on 
the  foot-ball  field  and  had  probably  worked  less 
than  fifteen  minutes  the  whole  afternoon,  was  left 
behind  with  a  little  boy. 

"  Gosh  !  "  ejaculated  the  ancient  man,  as  he 
carefully  lifted  his  scythe  across  his  shoulder  and 
followed  the  retreating  footsteps,  "  Did  you  see 
the  big  feller  with  the  muzzle,  who  laid  upon  the 
ground,  all  covered  with  blood  and  couldn't  move  ? 
George  !  He  must  have  been  calling  them  fear 
ful  names  to  make  them  all  set  into  him  like  that ! 
And  did  you  see  them  chase  the  little  stout  man 
all  over  the  yard  ?  He  knocked  three  of  them 
down  and  ran  away,  and  there  couldn't  nobody 
stop  him.  He  didn't  have  a  bad  face  either  ! 
But  I  guess  if  they  ever  catch  him  they'll  lay  him 
up ! " 

"  I  don't  find  no  fault  with  young  men  playing 

at  kick  the  foot-ball,"  went  on  the  sage,  "and  I 

always  like  to  see  young  folks  happy.     But  when 

young  men  who  come  here  on  purpose  to  play 

10* 


II4  TRINITY   SKETCHES. 

kick  the  foot-ball,  get  into  a  low,  coarse  fight  and 
knock  one  another  down  and  don't  play  no  foot 
ball  at  all,  they  ain't  gentlemen.  They  ain't  gen 
tlemen,"  said  the  old  man  violently,  "I  don't  care 
who  they  be  !  And  if  I  should  go  up  there  and 
tell  some  of  them  professors  how  they  all  pitched 
onto  the  big  feller  with  the  muzzle  and  smashed 
his  face  in,  they'd  be  a  heap  of  trouble  for  some 
body  round  here  !  But  I  ain't  no  tale-bearer," 
said  the  venerable  man,  as  he  passed  out  of  the 
ball  field,  "  I  just  mind  my  own  business  and  don't 
say  nothing  to  nobody." 

LUCIAN  WATERMAN  ROGERS. 


of  £ttne. 


(  4     A    ND  your  daughter,"  said  Lady  Smalltow- 
/A      ers,  "  She  must  be  impressive." 

"  On  the  contrary.  She  is  candor  it 
self.  She  is  such  an  incitement.  But—  '  Mrs. 
Beeter  hesitated  and  then  went  on  briskly,  "  Un 
fortunately,  she  is  of  average  height." 

"  That  doesn't  matter  much  when  it's  not  all  in 
one  place,"  rejoined  concisely  Lady  Smalltowers, 
who  had  the  remains  of  great  height. 

"Ah,  but  Agatha  is  so  hopelessly  juste  milieu. 
You  are  always  on  one  side  of  her  or  behind  her, 
or  in  front  of  her,  wherever  you  place  yourself." 

"  I  do  not  quite  understand  you,"  said  Lady 
Smalltowers,  with  more  insistence  than  emphasis. 
"  I  have  known  girls  to  marry  people." 

"  It  is  Agatha's  orientation,  you  know.  It 
brings  her  into  strained  relations  and  out  again." 

"  Ah,  I  understand,"  said  Lady  Smalltowers, 
unaccentedly.  She  had  a  way  of  leaving  off  her 
accents  which  had  the  effect  of  the  wrong  side  of  a 
damask  table-cloth,  and  suggested  indefinably  that 
she  came  from  the  Northeast.  She  did  this  with 
infinite  tact,  so  that  you  felt  intellectually  at  ease. 

"  Then,  will  you  please  explain  it  all,"  said  Mrs. 


n6  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

Beeter.     "  I  give  you  notice  that  I  shall  cling  to 
you." 

"  My  dear  child,  we  understand  one  another. 
You  are  infinitely  alloying.  I  will  marry  her." 
Lady  Smalltowers,  who  was  handsomer  than  ever 
when  she  laughed,  did  not  laugh. 

Mrs.  Beeter  looked  puzzled.  She  had  not  ex 
pected  Lady  Smalltowers  not  to  laugh.  It  seemed 
too  summary. 

"  The  poor  child  will  have  something,"  she 
murmured. 

Lady  Smalltowers'  eyes  approached  one  another 
one  three-millionth  of  an  inch.  She  glanced 
towards  the  window  and  said  guardedly,  "  Do  you 
mean  money  ?  " 

"  No,  not  exactly  money." 

"  Ah,  I  see,"  said  Lady  Smalltowers,  with  a 
tonic  accent  on  "Ah."  No  one  could  be  better 
aware  than  she  how  much  women  knew  who  knew 
nothing. 

"  It's  stocks  and  bonds  and  incomes,"  said  Mrs. 
Beeter,  breaking  down.  "  She  is  fastidiously  clever 
and  doesn't  care." 

"  That  complicates  matters,"  said  Lady  Small- 
towers,  tumultuously. 

"  But  worse  than  that,  she  doesn't  care  that  she 
doesn't  care." 

"  That  is  much  simpler." 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  seems  to  me  more  in 
volved." 

"  My  dear,  do  you  not  know  that  the  more 
involved  such  things  are,  the  simpler  they  are,' 


THE  FORE-WHEEL   OF   TIME.  ny 

said  Lady  Smalltowers  with  the  air  of  meditating 
in  silence. 

"  Yes,  to  a  woman  of  your  position,  perhaps," 
said  Mrs.  Beeter,  smiling-  with  her  basking  candor- 

"  We  will  have  her  married  and  in  the  smart 
set." 

Lady  Smalltowers  was  superb  in  her  utterance 
of  finalities.  Her  words  had  the  solemnity  of  a 
benediction,  and  Mrs.  Beeter  remained  motionless, 
her  head  slightly  bent  forward.  For  a  moment  it 
seemed  as  if  she  would  faint.  But,  though  not 
belonging  to  the  very  best  set,  she  was  far  too 
well-bred  for  that.  After  a  pause  she  said  resent 
fully,  and  with  an  air  of  balancing  three  probabil 
ities,  "  Will  there  be  a  wedding  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Lady  Smalltowers  with  a 
frigidity  which  had  the  effect  of  not  lowering  the 
temperature.  "  And  now  we  will  dress  for  dinner." 

Mrs.  Beeter,  too,  arose.  She  was  a  trifle  corpu 
lent,  and  life  took  on  a  dismal  introspection.  She 
was  less  inclined  to  despondency  than  her  friend, 
and  Agatha's  marriage  seemed,  in  the  light  of  that 
inclination,  not  altogether  unattainable.  Dressing 
for  dinner  caused  her  to  forget  the  past  and  the 
future  in  the  absorbing  insistence  of  the  diurnal 
As  for  Lady  Smalltowers,  dressing  for  dinner  was 
to  her  what  it  should  be,  a  solemn  purification. 
When  she  was  dressed  she  exhaled  beatitude,  and 
those  privileged  to  be  near  her  underwent  the 
excitement  of  a  mysterious  exaltation.  Not  that 
she  scintillated  or  glowed  —  only  the  unspeakable 
middle-class  people  do  that.  You  could  hardly 


IX8  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

have  offended  her  more,  had  you  suggested  that 
she  perspired,  something  so  unmistakably  Ameri 
can  that  it  is  never  alluded  to.  When  you  ap 
proached  Lady  Smalltowers  when  she  was  dressed 
for  dinner,  you  felt  the  serene  elevation  which  the 
neighborhood  of  perfection  brings.  Those  not 
privileged  to  do  so  remained  thin  and  empirical 
all  their  lives.  Her  taste  was  so  unerring  that  she 
never  mentioneed  things,  she  made  you  think  of 
them  ;  and  if  you  discovered  that  they  were  the 
wrong  things,  you  experienced  the  mortification 
of  knowing  that  you  had  fallen  in  her  estimation. 

On  entering  the  room,  she  found  her  son,  Lord 
Pythian,  standing  near  the  mantel.  He  was  a 
man  with  some  feminine  aggravations,  though 
conscientiously  modern,  and  considered  patriotism 
a  fifth-rate  impertinence,  proper  enough  for  for 
eigners,  who  invented  many  hideous  things. 
Agatha  and  her  mother  soon  followed,  for  even 
Agatha's  independence  had  not  reached  the  point 
of  making  her  late  for  an  important  function. 
Lord  Pythian  took  Mrs.  Beeter  out,  and  Agatha 
followed  with  Lady  Smalltowers.  To  go  into  din 
ner  with  Lady  Smalltowers  was  an  event,  and  it 
was  Agatha's  misfortune  to  be  unaware  that  some 
thing  was  taking  place.  In  her  youthful  ineptitude 
she  regarded  it  as  an  occurrence,  whereas  it  was  a 
culmination.  She  sat  between  Lord  Pythian  and 
his  mother  with  a  very  imperfect  sense  of  propin 
quity,  and  originated  remarks  on  ordinary  mat 
ters.  Lady  Smalltowers  trembled  lest  she  should 
say  something  with  a  definite  meaning,  but  recov- 


THE  FORE-WHEEL  OF  TIME.  ng 

ered  when  she  remembered  that  nobody  would 
understand  her. 

The  conversation  turned  on  Lord  Beaufort's 
escapade.  They  agreed  that  he  was  ill-balanced. 
He  had  departed  to  America  before  he  visited  the 
south  of  France. 

Lord  Pythian  said  Beaufort  always  impressed 
him  as  having  no  center.  He  spoke  slowly,  but 
with  a  bland  and  unconscious  rectification.  You 
gathered  that  Lord  Beaufort's  conduct  was  painful 
to  him. 

"  Why  do  you  pronounce  the  name  to  rhyme 
with  duffer  ? "  asked  Agatha,  with  an  effusive 
smile  —  one  that  wouldn't  do  in  England. 

She  was  conscious  of  her  misstep  at  once.  A 
negation  of  the  intellectual  frontier  had  occurred, 
and  Lady  Smalltowers  replied  with  a  vague  alarm. 

"  My  dear,  people  do  not  give  reasons  for 
things.  Things  simply  are." 

Lord  Pythian  had  paled  distinctly.  Spelling 
was  not  a  subject  people  of  his  class  talked  about. 
He  felt  as  he  might  have,  had  he  been  accused  of 
acting  from  a  motive.  There  was  something  de- 
gradingly  commercial  about  motives  and  reasons. 
Mrs.  Beeter  was  silent,  but  there  are  many  ways 
of  being  silent.  Lord  Pythian  had  an  atmosphere 
and  diffused  silence  through  it.  Poor  Mrs.  Beeter 
had  no  atmosphere. 

After  dinner,  Lord  Pythian  told  his  mother 
that  he  should  sleep  in  the  haunted  chamber- 
There  was  no  story  about  this  chamber,  and  noth 
ing  whatever  had  ever  happened  in  it.  Still,  it 


I20  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

was  distinctly  haunted  by  something  unknown  and 
nameless.  It  was  exactly  like  other  rooms  which 
are  not  haunted,  and  this  was  the  mysterious  thing 
about  it.  Lord  Pythian  came  of  a  long  line  of 
soldiers,  and  his  mother  knew  from  the  intensely 
living  expression  of  his  eye  that  he  had  determined 
to  brave  the  terrors  of  the  haunted  room.  But  she 
made  no  effort  to  dissuade  him  from  the  formida 
ble  ordeal.  Perhaps  a  mother  of  the  middle  class 
might  have  remonstrated  in  view  of  what  might 
not  happen.  But  Lady  Smalltowers  was  not  of 
the  middle  class. 

That  night  there  was  the  vague  electric  ten 
sion  in  the  air  which  precedes  a  catastrophe. 
Lady  Smalltowers  and  Mrs.  Beeter  sat  solitary  in 
their  rooms.  If  either  slept  no  one  but  the  sleeper 
was  aware  of  their  dreams.  The  servants  slept, 
all  but  the  housekeeper  and  butler,  whose  loyalty 
to  the  family  was  like  the  feeling  of  dumb  animals. 
At  nine  next  morning  Lady  Smalltowers  and  the 
housekeeper  walked  past  the  door  of  the  haunted 
chamber.  Lady  Smalltowers  looked  tall  in  the 
morning  light.  She  wore,  of  course,  no  jewels, 
but  her  morning  dress  was  perfect  in  all  its 
appointments.  In  her  hand  she  clutched  a  minia 
ture  of  her  son.  She  thought  she  might  not  recog 
nize  him.  Her  bearing  was  inexpressibly  digni 
fied,  but  touched  with  aristocratic  tedium.  She 
passed  the  door  of  the  haunted  chamber  and  went 
into  her  morning  room.  She  was  too  thorough 
bred  to  evince  curiosity  even  if  she  felt  it.  Then 
she  said  to  the  housekeeper,  "  Call  Lord  Pythian." 


THE  FORE-WHEEL   OF  TIME.  I2i 

Her  agitation  may  be  conjectured  from  the 
appalling  fact  that  she  gave  the  order  to  the  house 
keeper  and  not  to  the  footman.  Probably  the 
housekeeper  called  him.  At  all  events,  Mrs. 
Beeter  and  Agatha  always  appeared  to  think  so. 
CHARLES  FREDERICK  JOHNSON. 


11 


Worfb. 


TTERE  is  nothing  in  this  world  so  common,  so 
readily  given  away  and  consequently  so 
cheap,  as  good  advice.  We  have  already 
safely  stowed  away  in  the  rubbish  heap  of  our 
minds  enormous  consignments  of  this  commodity, 
which  would  essay  to  teach  us  the  most  proper 
way  of  running  a  college  paper.  If  we  could  only, 
conjurer-like,  "borrow  some  gentleman's  silk  hat 
from  the  crowd,"  put  in  a  little  of  the  above  ad 
vice,  carefully  covered  over  with  a  handkerchief, 
and  take  out  a  bright,  racy  "  article  "  on  the  times  ; 
or  if  the  same  superior  mind  which  evolved  all 
this  criticism  and  journalistic  information  would 
only  take  up  his  inspired  pen  and  write  a  sample 
article  for  the  paper — instead  of  taking  up  stones 
to  cast  at  it  —  the  TABLET  would  doubtless  be  a 
shining  star  in  the  firmament  of  college  journal 
ism.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  we  could  only  sell,  at 
the  merest  nominal  figure,  the  smallest  part  of 
this  wholesale  commodity,  we  would  be  ordering 
an  eighty-thousand-dollar  steam  yacht  to-day,  and 
keep  a  box  of  fifty-cent  cigars  in  our  office  drawer, 
wrapped  up  in  gilt  paper. 

Now,  of  course,  both  as  individuals  and  collect- 


THIS   THANKLESS  WORLD. 


123 


ively,  we  are  painfully  conscious  that  we  don't 
know  anything-  at  all  about  running  a  college 
paper  ;  that  an  ordinarily  intelligent  goat  can  run 
it  better  than  we  do,  and  that  any  man  in  college 
can  write  infinitely  better  articles  than  we  can, — 
even  the  most  despised  freshman.  But  why  don't 
they  ?  The  question  dies  unanswered  in  the  cir 
cumambient  air.  Truly,  it  is  pitiful  to  see  such 
magnificent  material  go  to  waste. 

A  few  days  ago  two  men  ascended  the  chapel 
stairs.  They  represented  two  distinct  and  sep 
arate  orders  of  society  —  the  criticiser  and  the 
criticised.  The  one  was  a  Pharisee  and  the  other 
an  editor. 

The  Pharisee  was  scrupulously  dressed  in  the 
height  of  fashion,  in  apparel  glorious  to  behold. 
The  editor  wore  reseated  trousers,  with  a  long 
frock  coat  to  cover  the  missing  integrity.  But 
who  could  penetrate  the  mystery  which  an  extra 
long  coat-tail  hides?  These  much-abused  and 
embarrassing  garments  also  were  in  that  romantic 
condition  which  is  known  in  the  vulgar  vernacular 
as  "  High  Tide,"  making  such  close  connections 
with  the  tops  of  his  boots  that  they  were  just  too 
late  to  catch  them. 

The  well-kept  locks  of  the  Pharisee,  again, 
were  perfumed  and  curled ;  and  while  each  sep 
arate  ringlet  was  distinctly  articulate,  all,  taken  as 
a  whole,  made  an  effect  not  unlike  a  sonnet  read 
aloud.  The  editor's  hair,  however,  was  all  stern 
and  wild,  hanging  in  long  sheaves  adown  his  neck, 


124 


TRINITY  SKETCHES. 


—  partly  because  it  gives  a  man  a  halo  of  literary 
renown  to  have  his  hair  all  stern  and  wild,  hang 
ing  in  long  sheaves  adown  his  neck,  and  partly, 
also,  because  the  pecuniary  emolument  attached 
to  the  position  of  editor  was  not  sufficient  to  buy 
him  a  twenty-five  cent  hair  cut. 

"  Why  don't  you  give  your  paper  a  little  indi 
viduality  ? "  demanded  the  Pharisee  ;  "  a  little 
dash  of  the  original,  once  in  a  while  ?  Why,  it's 
just  like  a  whitewashed  fence  !  For  Heaven's 
sake,  man,  put  something  or  other  in  it,  if  it's  only 
a  circus  poster  or  a  ballet  girl !  " 

We  did  so.  Sacrificing  ambition  and  popular 
applause  for  the  greatest  good  of  our  fellow  men, 
we  pictured  —  in  a  style  modeled  from  the  Phar 
isee's  suggestion,  with  a  dash  of  fantastical  aban 
don, —  a  few  glaring  evils  of  social  life,  with  com 
ments  on  the  public  morals.  The  next  day  the 
paper  had  acquired  the  reputation  abroad  of  being 
a  'scurrilous  sheet.' 

Oh,  thankless  world  ! 

"  Why  do  you  make  everything  so  solemn  and 
lugubrious  ? "  said  the  Pharisee  again.  "  Do  you 
publish  your  paper  in  the  morgue  ?  Put  a  little 
life  into  it  occasionally, —  anything  that  will  provoke 
a  smile  !  Get  a  '  funny  man,'  if  necessary,  on  the 
board." 

We  did  so.  At  enormous  expense  and  inconve 
nience,  we  procured  the  services  of  a  professional 
wit  of  recognized  reputation.  We  straightaway 
set  before  the  expectant  public  a  racy  newspaper 
article  fairly  overflowing  with  subtle  humor,  yet 


THIS  THANKLESS  WORLD.  I2,j 

harmless  withal,  and  thoroughly  fitting  for  a 
Christian  young  man  to  read, —  eminently  fitting 
to  beguile  the  leisure  hours  of  a  hard-working  col 
lege  student,  in  mirthful  innocence. 

The  next  morning  the  Pharisees  began  to  con 
gregate. 

"  Have  you  noticed  the  pathetic  struggles 
which  that  paper  is  making  in  its  efforts  to  be 
funny  ? "  says  one. 

"Yes,"  says  the  second  Pharisee,  lighting  a 
cigar,  "  If  I  were  in  the  habit  of  writing  things 
like  that,  I'd  hire  a  professional  assassin  to  call  me 
in!" 

Thus  it  is  all  the  year  through.  The  chill 
breath  of  criticism  alone  rewards  our  toil,  and 
gratitude  is  the  weakest  emotion  of  the  human 
mind.  Oh  thankless  world  !  Before  what  class  of 
animals  do  we  cast  our  pearls  ! 

DUNRAVEN. 


II* 


^froff  (pout  fge  Coffee. 


YES,  of  course  you  feel  anxious  to  get  out  into 
the  world  and  begin  your  life  work.  That's 
perfectly  natural.  I  think  every  senior 
ought  to  feel  that  way ;  but  don't  pretend  that 
you're  not  sorry  to  leave  Trinity  College,  for  you 
know  perfectly  well  that  you  don't  mean  it.  You 
stay  here  four  years,  you  spend  whole  days  in 
storming  against  some  innovation  in  the  curricu 
lum  which  you  dimly  imagine  has  been  brought 
about  by  a  tyrannical  faculty  for  your  special  in 
convenience  ;  you  tirade  against  some  abandon 
ment  of  custom,  some  violation  of  a  long-cherished 
tradition  ;  you  are  profoundly  sure  that  Trinity 
College  is  hurrying  rapidly  down  hill  every  day, 
that  this  isn't  the  place  it  used  to  be,  and  that  you, 
for  one,  will  be  glad  to  leave  the  sinking  ship  ;  but 
when  the  time  comes  to  go,  when  you  hear  for  the 
last  time,  perhaps,  your  classmates  on  the  campus 
singing  "'Neath  the  Elms,"  when  you  go  up  to 
Chapel  in  lazy  week  and  find  that  upstart  Junior 
established  in  that  comfortable  corner  that  you 
have  filled  so  long,  it  would  be  funny,  if  it  wasn't 
pathetic,  to  notice  how  petty  your  grievances  be 
come  and  what  a  desirable  place  Trinity  College 
has  grown  to  be.  And  when  you  have  finally  dis- 


A  STROLL  ABOUT  THE  COLLEGE.      I2j 

posed  of  your  furniture  and  take  your  dress-suit 
case  to  follow  the  hackman  down  the  walk,  you  all 
at  once  become  conscious  that  you  are  going  to 
miss  in  future  some  of  these  familiar  scenes  which 
you  have  never  thought  particularly  charming 
until  now.  You  realize  for  the  first  time  that 
there  are  graven  on  your  mind  memories  that  the 
lapse  of  many  years  cannot  wholly  efface.  Oh,  it 
just  breaks  my  heart  to  think  of  leaving  this  place. 
Do  you  remember  when  you  first  came  to  col 
lege  how  you  wondered  which  was  Jarvis  and 
which  Northam,  and  if  you  ever  would  learn 
which  was  the  entrance  to  the  President's  office. 
Those  carved  heads  over  the  door  don't  seem  to 
frown  to-day  quite  so  grimly  as  they  did  that 
Wednesday  morning  when  your  petition  was  re 
fused  and  you  left  college  for  a  visit  among 
friends. 

"Oh,  Robert,  O-oh,  Robert!"  There,  the  mail 
has  come.  See  them  crowd  around  the  box.  Per 
haps  you'll  hear  from  that  Teachers'  Agency  to 
day.  How  many  times  you've  rushed  down  stairs, 
expecting  a  letter  from  her,  only  to  be  confronted 

with  a  bill,  a  circular,  or  "  Nothing,  Mr.  J ." 

Remember  how  in  Freshman  year  you  dropped  a 
letter  for  her  into  the  "  official "  box,  and  how  a 
week  after  the  Secretary  of  the  Faculty  found  it  ? 
Come  to  think  of  it,  that  was  probably  one  reason 
she  never  wrote  to  you  again.  That  was  about 
the  time  you  began  to  smoke,  too,  wasn't  it  ? 

And  there's  the  bulletin  board.     No  need  to 
read  the  notices.     You're  an  alumnus  now.     Re- 


I2g  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

member  how  many  times  you've  eagerly  scanned 
it  to  see  if  you  could  spy  the  welcome  information 
that  "Prof.  G—  -  will  not  be  able  to  meet  his 
classes  to-day."  It  really  don't  seem  to  make  so 
much  difference  now,  does  it  ?  If  you  had  spent 
some  of  your  leisure  time  in  study,  your  name 
would  have  been  higher  up  on  that  Senior  standing 

list.  "  Mr.  M ,  representing  D.  Toy,  will  be  in 

53  J.  H.  to-day  to  solicit  orders."  Did  you  ever 
pay  that  bill  ?  No,  that's  a  meeting  of  the  new 
Tablet  Board,  and  doesn't  concern  you.  The  Phi 
Beta  Kappa  meeting  doesn't  concern  you  much 
either,  does  it  ? 

Let's  stroll  across  the  Campus  and  sit  down 
under  the  old  Bishop's  outstretched  hand. —  Got  a 
cigarette  ?  Thanks. —  He  looks  rather  grim  up 
there, —  doesn't  he?  —  the  brazen  figure  against 
the  sky ;  and  yet  he  always  seemed  to  me  to  un 
bend  a  little,  and  a  faint  smile  seems  to  lurk 
around  that  resolute  mouth  when  the  waiter  comes 
out  with  the  lemonade.  If  he  could  speak  how 
many  secrets  he  could  tell.  Many  lasting  friend 
ships  have  been  formed  here  where  we  sit,  beneath 
the  Bishop's  benediction.  Do  you  remember  the 

last  talk  we  had  here  with  poor  B ?  Why 

should  we  call  him  "  poor  "  ?  He's  better  off  than 
he  was  here,  I'm  sure,  dear  old  chap. 

There,  they're  singing  "  We  gather  round  the 
Chapel  steps,"  now.  See  them  gather.  How  irk 
some  going  to  Chapel  used  to  be  !  See  Robert 
holding  out  his  watch.  "Time,"  and  they  go 
jostling  up  the  stairs.  A  few  tardy  Sophomores 


A  STROLL  ABOUT  THE  COLLEGE. 


129 


rush  around  the  corner,  and  the  door  is  closed. 
How  solemn  the  service  seemed  yesterday,  didn't 
it  ?  I  never  realized  before  how  much  the  prayer 
for  the  college  means. 

There's  Mr.  Adams  over  there  leisurely  beat 
ing  that  old  rug  of  yours.  He  leisurely  cared  for 
your  room  and  blacked  your  boots  for  a  good 
while.  He  did  your  father's,  too.  Quite  an  old 
landmark  is  Mr.  Adams.  He  knows  the  transient 
nature  of  a  college  course.  See,  he  stops  ;  he  di 
rects  that  young  Freshman  to  Jarvis  with  just  that 
gesture  with  which  he  greeted  us  when  we  first 
saw  him.  Were  Adams  acquainted  with  Tenny 
son,  don't  you  know,  you  might  imagine  him,  as 
he  rhythmically  beats  away,  murmuring, 

"Men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever." 

How  quiet  it  is  just  now  !  There's  not  a  soul 
upon  the  walk  except  Mr.  Michael  Doyle,  and  we 
can  hear  him  plainly.  "  Bunker-hills,  gintlemin, 
bunker-hills,  popcorn.  Buy  me  out,  gintlemin, 
buy  me  out,"  and  he  twirls  his  stick  and  shuffles 
down  the  walk.  Old  "  Apples "  is  a  great  boy ; 
he'll  vend  his  apples  and  popcorn  till  cold  weather 
comes  and  then  he'll  seek  seclusion  —  at  the  city's- 
expense.  There  they  come  from  chapel ;  Apples 
hears  them  and  begins  anew,  "  Hello,  gintlemin, 
hello  !  Buy  me  out,  popcorn,  bunker-hills,  buy 
me  out."  "Sing,  Apples,  sing." — 

"  O-oh,  my  name  is  Dan  McCann, 
I  come  from  Paddy's  land, 
I  am  a  true-born  Irishman." 


I;,0  TRINITY  SKETCHES. 

"  Gintlemin  of  Trinity  College,  I  wish  ye  all  a 
happy  New  Year  an'  a  happy  Fourth  o'  July. — 
Popcorn,  gintlemin,  popcorn. — A  good  vacation  an' 
may  ye  all  come  back  to  Trinity  'Colleges.' — Buy 
me  out  gintlemin,  buy  me  out."  I  wish  we  were  all 
coming  back  to  Trinity  "Colleges  ". 

The  western  hills  loom  up  against  the  gorgeous 
splendor  of  the  setting  sun;  and  now  we  sit  in 
shadow  while  the  fleecy  cloud-piles  of  the  east, 
far  above  us,  are  bathed  in  light.  Now  the  more 
quiet  tints  of  twilight  steal  on,  and  the  roseate  west 
grows  old  and  gray,  soon  to  be  wrapped  in  a 
shroud  of  darkness.  Will  any  sunsets  ever  seem 
so  bright  as  these  ?  Do  you  recollect  that  charm 
ing  Junior  that  took  you  out  on  the  cliff  by  the 
stone-crusher  that  first  afternoon,  and  descanted 
on  the  beauty  of  that  western  view  ?  Wasn't  he 
just  the  nicest  fellow  you  ever  saw  ?  He  im 
pressed  me  just  the  same.  What  excellent  advice 
he  gave  about  your  room  !  How  grateful  you  felt 
for  that  little  help  with  "  De  Senectute"  ! 

Did  you  ever  stop  upon  the  walk  late  at  night 
and  look  up  at  the  towers  and  turrets  that  seem  to 
project  straight  up  into  the  sky?  When  the  moon 
is  flooding  all  things  with  dim,  mysterious  light, 
all  is  still,  and  only  here  and  there  a  light  burns 
dimly  in  some  college  window.  The  long  windows 
of  the  gymnasium  —  unless  it  be  the  night  of  a 
German — reflect  the  ghostly  moonbeams. —  Come 
to  think  of  it,  you  were  a  little  fast  in  Junior  year ; 
perhaps  you've  seen  several  moons  beaming  down 
upon  you  when  returning  late  to  college. —  Every 


A  STROLL  ABOUT  THE  COLLEGE.     l-^l 

stone  in  that  old  building  is  dear  to  us.  However 
pleasant  our  surroundings  in  after  life,  we  never 
can  enjoy  them  more  than  we  have  our  comfort 
able  quarters  up  in  Jarvis. 

It  is  the  privilege  of  old  warriors  to  fight  their 
battles  over  in  memory,  and  I  am  sure  we  both 
feel  aged  to-day.  And  our  college  life  has  con 
sisted  largely  of  struggles — hasn't  it? — and  strug 
gles  of  many  kinds.  In  some  we've  triumphed, 
and  some,  alas,  have  worsted  us.  Remember 
those  old  cane-rushes  they  used  to  have  when  we 
were  underclassmen  ?  Oh,  they  were  f ushes  worthy 
of  the  name  !  What  a  shame  we  thought  it  when 
the  Faculty  abolished  them !  That  first  St.  Pat 
rick's  Day !  I  can  feel  now  the  quiver  of  excite 
ment,  the  tightening  of  muscles ;  I  can  hear  the 
labored  breathing  as  we  formed  just  outside  that 
first  row  of  elms  —  the  cane  in  our  midst,  tightly 
grasped  by  our  sturdiest  classmates. —  How  many 
nice  fellows  we  have  lost  since  then  !  —  At  last  the 
word  "go,"  and  we  rush  madly  toward  that  coveted 
goal,  the  door  of  middle  Jarvis.  The  determined 
Sophomores  hurl  themselves  at  our  feet  to  stop 
our  on-rush,  and  as  we  are  borne  back  I  remember 
noticing,  even  then,  that  the  soft  turf  had  been 
literally  plowed  by  the  many  feet.  And  then 
we  surge  to  and  fro,  jostled  and  crushed  against 
the  buttresses,  squeezed  and  pounded,  now  down 
upon  the  gratings  or  the  walk,  trampled  upon, 
bruised,  yet  all  unmindful,  striving  for  glory  and 
that  cane.  Time  and  again  we  seem  on  the  point 
of  victory  ;  the  supreme  moment  comes  at  last ;  a 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  LOS  ANGELES  ' 

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